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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Marion  L,  Burton 


The  New  Fraternity 

A  Novel  of  University  Life 

By 

George  Frederick  Gundelfinger,  Ph.D. 


UHy 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

Literature     &"     Music 
Sewickley,  Pennsylvania 


Copyright,  ipid. 

By  George  Frederick  Gundelfinger 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Published  November,  igi6 


GIFT 


7GI 


A  Message  to  the  Undergraduates,  the 
Alumni,  the  Parents,  the  Teachers,  the  Pro- 
fessors and  the  College  Presidents  of  America. 


292 


CONTENTS 
Chapter  Page 

I    THE  HERO  AND  THE  WHITE  PLUME II 

II    THE  TEAM   BREAKS  TRAINING l8 

III  ALICE   AND    ALLAINE 29 

IV  WHAT  THE  BIRDS  TAUGHT  HIM '        42 

V    THE   FLEDGELING   IS    CALLED   AWAY    FROM    THE 

NEST    54 

VI    POVERTY   AND   WEALTH 66 

VII     HIGHER   EDUCATION    WITHOUT   A   COLLEGE 80 

VIII    ANOTHER  THING  WHICH   KUHLER  DID  FOR  HIS 

ALMA   MATER 86 

IX    THE  WATCHDOG 102 

X    VARIOUS  KINDS  OF  LOVE II4 

XI    THE  GRADUATE   STUDENT 125 

XII    WHEN  ONE  STUDIES  HARD  ENOUGH  ONE  BEGINS 

TO   SEE   THINGS I36 

XIII  HOLLIS   AND  DE   SOTO 145 

XIV  THE  DANCE  AND  THE  DESK 1 58 

XV    RESEARCH  AND  TEACHING 164 

XVI    THE   THIRST   FOR   BROTHERHOOD 180 

XVII    WHAT   HAPPENED  TO  JONES  ? I94 


Chapter  Page 

XVIII    THE   THIRD   PROPOSAL 205 

XIX    THE    FINAL    IMPETUS 213 

XX    THE  MESSAGE  FROM   "tHE  ALUMNI" 227 

XXI    WHAT  MILTON  UNDERLINED  IN  EMERSON 232 

XXII    THE  THESIS    264 

XXIII  THE    FAREWELL    283 

XXIV  REUNION     288 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  HERO  AND  THE  WHITE  PLUME 

A  heavy  gray  fog,  so  characteristic  of  November  even- 
ings, had  already  begun  to  form  and  lent  that  uncertain 
mystic  effect  which  is  often  seen  in  the  background  of  a 
picture,  where  only  soft  outlines  suggest  rather  than  repre- 
sent the  view. 

The  fog  was  gathering  thickly  along  the  western  horizon, 
and  through  it  the  upper  zone  of  the  setting  sun  was  still 
visible,  emitting  a  crimson  glow,  which,  at  lengthening  inter- 
vals, seemed  to  brighten  perceptibly,  as  if  fanned  by  a  wan- 
dering breeze,  and  then  become  duller  than  before.  One 
might  almost  imagine  it  to  be  a  human  heart,  which  some 
warrior,  athirst  for  blood  and  fame,  had  torn  from  the 
bosom  of  his  victim  and  tossed  into  this  sluggish,  muddy, 
snake-haunted  stream,  where  its  pulsations  grew  more  and 
more  feeble  and  irregular  as  it  sank  lower  and  lower  in  the 
cold,  lifeless  water. 

The  game  was  over  and  won.  It  was  the  greatest  victory 
in  the  history  of  the  university,  and  the  credit  went  to  one 
man — Tom  Kuhler.  He  did  all  the  brilliant  playing,  made 
the  long  runs  and  the  timely  tackles.  He  was  the  star  of  the 
afternoon,  the  hero,  the  king,  the  god.  And  yet  a  merciless 
god — for,  although  he  had  sent  the  opposing  team  to  bitter 
defeat,  he  had  to  twist  their  ribs  and  crack  their  skulls  to  do 
so;  there  was  scarcely  a  man  who  escaped  being  injured  in 
some  way  or  other. 

During  the  first  quarter,  one  player  was  carried  off  the 
field ;  his  neck  had  been  broken.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  only 
man  considered  as  Kuhler's  equal  or  superior — the  only  man 
who  really  stood  in  Kuhler's  way ;  and  Kuhler  himself  had 


12  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

connived  in  advance  with  his  squad  to  remove  him  from  the 
gridiron  as  soon  as  possible. 

When  the  fame  of  a  great  university  Hes  at  stake,  human 
suffering  and  death  rtself  are  disregarded.  The  main  thing 
is  the  glory  of  the  Alma  Mater.  Let  us  unfurl  her  flag  to 
the  eyes  of  the  populace  that  she  might  lure  the  youth  of  the 
nation  into  her  ranks.  What  difference  does  it  make  if  we 
murder  a  man  or  two,  as  long  as  we  win  the  support  of  a 
thousand  others  by  doing  so ! 

And  while  that  score  was  being  flashed  across  the  conti- 
nent, and  while  the  graduates  of  the  future  were  reading  the 
thrilling  accounts  of  the  contest,  the  dying  man  was  drawing 
his  last  breath. 

The  removal  of  the  unfortunate  victim  produced  a  short 
silence  and  delay ;  but  the  game  was  soon  resumed,  and  the 
spectators  were  again  on  their  feet,  yelping  like  hounds  of 
war.  When  the  whistle  announced  the  close  of  the  conflict, 
it  seemed  as  though  the  walls  of  a  mighty  dam  gave  way, 
and  the  students  poured  down  over  the  benches — stumbling, 
falling,  rising,  hurdling,  rushing,  dashing  forward  Hke  a 
human  torrent,  which  leaped  over  the  fences  and  flooded  the 
field.  Kuhler,  with  outstretched  arms  and  with  a  torch  of 
blazing  red  fire  in  each  hand,  was  hoisted  on  the  shoulders 
of  his  fellow-players,  who  marched  across  the  gridiron 
before  a  deafening  brass  band,  followed  by  all  the  students, 
who  threw  their  canes  and  derbies  high  in  the  air  and  howled 
and  bellowed  like  a  herd  of  wolves  and  wildcats.  There 
was  one  girl  among  them;  she  marched  along  at  the  very 
end  of  the  procession,  waving  her  white-plumed  hat  fran- 
tically above  her  head. 

There  was  perhaps  only  one  student  of  the  university 
absent  from  this  spectacular  pageant.  He  remained  in  his 
seat  in  the  last  row  at  the  top  of  the  East  Stand.  He  had 
lost  all  interest  in  the  game  after  the  ill-fated  victim  had 
been  carried  off  the  field.  The  sight  of  that  man's  head, 
dangling  loosely  over  the  edge  of  a  stretcher,  had  obliter- 
ated in  this  observer  what  little  enjoyment  the  preceding 
part  of  the  game  had  afforded  him.     His  thoughts  were 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  13 

with  the  dying  student,  and  it  was  to  this  boy  alone  that  the 
sinking  sun  became  symbolic  of  the  final  throbs  of  a  human 
heart. 

Although  he  was  sad  and  pensive,  no  one  seemed  to 
observe  it.  Why  should  they,  when  death  itself  had  failed 
to  detract  their  eager  attention  ?  And  was  not  this  boy  him- 
self a  part  of  the  vast  multitude  in  which  his  very  thoughts 
were  concealed  ?  Inwardly  he  had  his  own  individual  reflec- 
tions, but  outwardly  he  appeared  like  all  the  others. 

There  is  a  certain  captivation  about  this  intense  enthu- 
siasm which  seems  to  absorb  all  individuality.  The  audience 
does  not  consist  of  fifty  thousand  individuals;  it  is  one 
gigantic  body,  shouting  from  fifty  thousand  mouths  and 
stamping  with  a  hundred  thousand  feet  upon  the  trembling 
framework  which  supports  it. 

Yes;  the  boy's  thoughts  were  far  removed  from  the 
thoughts  of  this  fearful  ogre,  but  his  body  was  a  part  of  it. 
He  rose  with  the  crowd,  cheered,  and  waved  his  hat ;  but  he 
did  so  involuntarily,  perhaps  unconsciously.  It  was  the 
persons  around  him  who  lifted  him  up.  It  was  the  pressure 
from  all  sides  which  forced  the  voice  out  of  him.  It  was 
instinct,  and  not  intelligence,  which  made  him  wave  his  hat 
above  his  head.  He  was  drifting  incontrollably  on  a  mighty 
sea,  whose  undulations  began  at  one  extremity  of  the  grand- 
stand and  rolled  along  to  the  other.  It  was  this  wave  which 
had  taken  hold  of  him ;  it  was  not  his  own  enthusiasm. 

Even  those  of  us  who  have  acquired  the  majesty  of  calm- 
ness are  often  demented  by  a  football  game.  The  animal 
spirit  is  temporarily  unleashed.  Students  stand  up  and  beat 
one  another,  exercising  the  same  brutality  which  is  displayed 
on  the  field.  There  is  something  terrible  in  this  extreme 
joy ;  it  differs  little  from  the  frenzy  of  a  beast.  It  is  even 
more  pronounced  in  the  older  graduate  than  in  the  fresh- 
man. It  would  seem  that  the  more  reasonable  we  become, 
the  more  animalistic  we  are  when  the  force  of  resistance  is 
suddenly  weakened.  Both  the  youth  and  his  senior  seem  to 
lose  their  heads — they  go  mad;  they  become  dangerously 
intoxicated  with  delight. 


14  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

It  is  not  only  the  men,  but  also  some  women,  who  are 
thus  affected.  There  was  a  girl  in  the  East  Stand  whose 
madness  was  easily  double  that  of  any  student  in  the  section. 
She  reminded  one  of  Kiphng's  poem,  The  Female  of  the 
Species. 

Those  who  were  seated  in  that  section  had  all  reason  to 
believe  that  the  pensive  lad  had  escorted  this  girl  to  the 
game.  She  sat  next  to  him,  and  the  clothes  of  both  of  them 
indicated  poverty.  The  boy's  coat  was  antiquated  and 
shabby;  the  girl's  garments  were  newer  but  cheap.  She 
wore  a  shapeless  white  felt  hat,  trimmed  with  a  long  white 
flimsy  plume,  which  hung  down  her  back  to  her  waist.  Sur- 
rounded as  she  was  by  the  rich  shades  of  velvet  and  the 
expensive  furs  of  the  more  dignified  social  leaders,  she 
appeared  like  a  common  daisy  in  a  bed  of  cultivated  roses. 

No  conversation  passed  between  this  boy  and  girl.  In- 
deed, she  was  interested  in  the  game  to  the  same  degree  that 
he  was  disgusted  with  it.  Her  eyes  were  glued  to  Tom 
Kuhler.  Not  a  move  of  his  escaped  her,  and  she  applauded 
furiously  after  each  of  his  plays.  At  times  she  stood  up  on 
her  seat  mimicking  the  cheer-leader,  her  entire  body  sway- 
ing with  the  rhythm  of  the  rah  rah  rah.  When  Kuhler  made 
his  famous  run,  she  lost  self-control  completely  and  seized 
this  boy  with  a  frantic  embrace,  which  sent  his  hat  flying 
from  his  head.  It  was  the  only  instant  during  the  whole 
game  when  they  seemed  aware  of  each  other's  presence. 

At  the  close  of  the  game  they  separated,  he  remaining 
in  his  seat  and  she  joining  the  torrent  of  students  which  was 
making  its  way  to  the  field.  She  hopped  and  jumped  from 
bench  to  bench  like  a  mad  bird  until  she  reached  her  position 
at  the  rear  of  the  procession,  where  we  see  her  now,  whirl- 
ing and  dancing  to  the  music,  singing  and  cheering  with  the 
students,  and  waving  her  white  plume  wildly  above  her  head. 

The  boy  had  watched  the  white  plume  floating  down 
over  the  grandstand  and  then  he  gazed  thoughtfully  and 
solitarily  upon  the  procession  of  which  it  had  become  a  part. 
The  fog  stood  in  long  horizontal  clouds  over  the  gridiron. 
This,  together  with  the  distance  which  separated  him  from 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  15 

the  field,  rendered  the  scene  rather  indistinct,  and  it  was  left 
to  his  thought,  rather  than  his  observation,  to  decipher  what 
was  taking  place  in  the  vast  arena,  which  seemed  miles  and 
miles  below  him. 

We  know  the  nature  of  his  thought :  The  procession,  as 
it  zigzagged  across  the  field,  was  nothing  more  than  a 
gigantic  snake.  Kuhler  was  at  the  head  of  it ;  this  girl  was 
at  the  end.  The  derbies,  which  he  saw  rising  and  falling 
in  the  air,  were  like  a  swarm  of  mad  flies  darting  from  and 
to  the  steaming  hide  of  the  serpent,  which  writhed  along, 
dragging  its  belly  through  mud  and  blood — for  it  had  rained 
that  morning,  and  the  field  was  covered  with  a  slippery  mire 
mixed  here  and  there  with  the  blood  which  had  dripped 
from  the  torn  cheeks  of  the  contestants.  The  two  torches 
which  Kuhler  swung  about  his  head  resembled  two  blood- 
shot eyes  glaring  through  the  fog.  The  girl's  white  plume, 
together  with  her  shrill  feminine  voice  (which  could  be 
heard  at  times  above  the  others),  supplied  a  rattle  at  the  end 
of  the  snake's  tail.    The  illusion  was  complete. 

It  was  the  first  real  football  game  the  boy  had  attended. 
He  had  never  seen  such  a  multitude  of  people  before.  He 
had  never  heard  such  a  storm  of  applause  and  enthusiasm. 
He  had  stayed  away  from  earlier  games  to  save  enough 
money  for  the  final  contest  of  the  season.  He  believed  it 
was  his  duty  to  see  this  big  event  upon  which  the  reputation 
of  the  university  was  in  great  part  founded. 

His  idea  of  a  university  had  been  primarily  a  place  fop 
study — a  world  of  books — a  community  in  which  scholar- 
ship was  cherished,  rewarded  and  worshiped.  It  was  this 
notion  he  carried  there  when  the  alumni  of  his  home  town 
presented  him  with  a  free  scholarship.  He  had  been  selected 
because  they  considered  him  a  youth  of  great  promise,  sound 
in  mind  and  body — a  youth  who  would  accomplish  some- 
thing of  which  the  Alma  Mater  might  well  be  proud.  These 
things  were  stated  in  the  letter  which  he  had  received  from 
them. 

Today  he  had  seen  the  thing  of  which  the  Alma  Mater 
seemed  most  proud.    He  had  seen  the  alumni  applaud  and 


i6  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

idolize  Tom  Kuhler  for  the  great  victory  he  had  won  for 
his  university.  It  was  only  natural  that  the  boy's  soul 
revolted  when  he  saw  the  public  worshiping  brute  strength, 
when  he  saw  football  occupying  a  more  important  place 
than  scholarship — the  one  great  activity  which  should  pre- 
dominate at  the  institution. 

What  little  he  had  earlier  seen  or  read  of  football  led 
him  to  believe  it  was  merely  a  clean,  manly,  healthful  sport, 
conducive  to  study  and  resulting  in  a  symmetrical  develop- 
ment of  the  student's  physique.  Today  it  stood  for  one 
thing  only:  rank  competition,  which  transformed  men  into 
beasts  and  deprived  them  of  their  reason  by  stimulating 
their  animal  passions  beyond  control.  He  could  see  Httle 
that  resembled  human  happiness  and  success  in  that  shriek- 
ing monster  which  groveled  in  the  foggy  depths  beneath  him. 
And  yet  it  symbolized  victory !  Victory  over  what  ?  What 
had  been  gained?  A  score.  What  had  been  lost?  A  Hfe. 
Ah !  more  than  one  life.  He  saw  the  blood  ooze  from  the 
mangled  faces  of  the  players  as  they  limped  from  the  field, 
but  there  was  more  that  he  could  not  see.  There  were 
hidden  injuries  which  would  not  appear  serious  until  long 
after  the  thundering  ceased,  long  after  the  victory  was  for- 
gotten. In  that  mad  fight  one  man  had  perhaps  burst  an 
artery ;  another  had  strained  a  muscle ;  another  had  snapped 
a  rib,  pierced  a  lung  or  torn  a  heart.  "J^st  a  few  scratches," 
says  the  victim;  but  it  is  not  so  trivial  as  that.  Years  will 
tell ;  poor  health,  disease  and  premature  death  follow  in  the 
path  of  this  serpent — this  serpent  of  victory. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  which  zigzagged  back  and  for- 
ward in  the  head  of  our  dreamer,  just  as  the  serpent  zig- 
zagged back  and  forward  across  the  gridiron.  But  these 
thoughts  were  not  all  dreams.  They  are  officially  reported 
facts  which  seem  to  confirm  them.  It  was  recently  esti- 
mated that  seventy-five  percent,  of  the  injuries  treated  by 
surgeons  in  one  season  at  a  well-known  institution  were  due 
to  football  casualities,  and  these  were  all  found  among  the 
forty  or  fifty  students  who  had  entered  the  contest.  The 
remaining  twenty-five  percent,  were  scattered  among  over 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  17 

six  hundred  other  students.  Eighteen  percent,  of  the 
seventy-five  percent,  of  the  injuries  were  of  a  serious  nature 
Hable  to  cause  future  trouble.  A  study  of  the  careers  of 
the  graduates  of  that  institution  showed  that  those  who  were 
star  athletes  in  their  college  days  had  suffered  a  positive  loss 
in  weakened  physique  at  a  time  in  Hfe  when  the  best  should 
be  expected  in  the  co-ordination  of  mind  and  body.  Glori- 
ous Football!    Adorable  Million-Dollar  Stadium! 

The  boy  remained  in  his  seat,  meditating. 

The  serpent  was  now  leaving  the  field.  Its  head  had 
found  a  hole  in  the  fence ;  the  body  followed,  and  that  part 
which  was  still  visible  grew  shorter  and  shorter.  Finally 
the  very  end  of  the  tail — the  white  plume — wagged  and 
rattled  once  again  and  then  disappeared. 

The  spectators  left  the  benches.  The  grandstands  grad- 
ually emptied;  they  seemed  to  creak  restfully  after  they 
were  relieved  of  the  great  weight  which  they  had  supported. 
A  drizzling  rain  fell  quietly  over  the  deserted  gridiron.  It 
seemed  that  God  Himself  was  trying  to  wash  away  the 
blood-stains  which  had  been  left  upon  it. 

The  boy  left  the  field  in  silence — and  alone. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   TEAM    BREAKS    TRAINING 

When  the  boy  saw  the  white  plume  vanish  from  the 
field  he  believed  the  serpent  of  victory  had  passed  out  of 
existence.  He  saw  no  more  of  it  that  night,  for  he  spent 
the  evening  in  his  little  garret  chamber,  far  away  from  the 
riot  and  tumult.  But  he  had  seen  enough.  Had  he  wit- 
nessed the  events  which  followed  the  game,  and  which  will 
be  described  in  this  chapter,  he  might  have  revolted  then 
and  there  against  the  whole  idea  of  university  education, 
although  he  had  not  yet  received  it.  Providence  drew  the 
curtain  across  the  scenes  which  would  have  excited  him 
prematurely  in  regard  to  reform.  Providence  saw  to  it  that 
this  youth  was  not  called  away  from  his  studies  to  solve 
those  problems  with  which  only  an  educated  man  could  cope. 
His  preparation  for  the  conflict  must  precede  the  conflict 
itself.  The  cause  for  and  the  need  of  conflict  would  not 
disappear  in  the  meanwhile;  that  cause  and  that  need  are 
omnipresent. 

The  snake  dance  on  the  gridiron  was  merely  an  intro- 
duction to  the  celebrations  whicli  followed  it.  The  youth 
must  be  left  in  his  lonely  garret  with  his  thoughts  and  his 
reflections,  while  we  follow  the  path  over  which  the  serpent 
is  passing.  It  creeps  along  from  the  field  to  the  town, 
monopolizing  the  streets  and  even  derailing  the  cars.  Then 
it  stops  before  the  University  Dining  Hall  and  howls  for 
food.  We  must  peep  inside  this  lofty  building  and  see  how 
the  animal  feeds. 

"Kuhler  is  a  miracle !" 

"Wasn't  that  the  greatest  run  you  ever  saw?" 

"What  wonderful  interference !" 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  19 

"Did  you  notice  that  remarkable  punting  in  the  third 
quarter  ?" 

"He  can  put  it  all  over  that  fullback." 

"He  is  strong  as  a  bull." 

"The  greatest  game  in  the  history  of  the  university !" 

"He  could  smash  through  anything." 

"Wasn't  that  a  pretty  goal  ?" 

"He's  a  wizard." 

"Hell,  fellows,  we'll  have  to  get  soused  on  the  head  of 
this." 

"I  expect  to  be  drunk  for  a  whole  week." 

Such  are  the  remarks  at  one  table. 

Then  the  table  is  transformed  into  a  football  field.  The 
five-yard  lines  are  scored  upon  the  linen  with  the  prong  of 
a  fork.  The  salt  shakers  and  the  vinegar  cruets  represent 
the  players.  The  catsup  bottle  becomes  a  goal  post.  Each 
student  at  the  table  takes  a  cracker  and  tries  to  kick  a  goal. 
Bang!  Some  one  at  the  next  table  has  struck  the  catsup 
bottle  with  a  grapefruit.  The  bombardment  between  the 
two  tables  begins.  Others  participate  in  the  general  war. 
The  whole  hall  becomes  a  scene  of  battle,  with  food  and 
dishes  for  ammunition.  Chunks  of  bread  rise  and  fall  like 
projectiles  and  meteors,  whose  paths  intersect,  giving  rise 
to  collisions.  Napkins,  filled  with  powdered  sugar,  explode 
noiselessly  in  mid-air,  forming  clouds  of  white  smoke. 
Stacks  of  order  blanks  are  sent  to  the  ceiling,  where  they 
separate  and  flutter  down  from  the  rafters.  Bang!  Bang! 
Bang!  The  glasses  are  hurled  upon  the  stone  floor,  where 
they  fly  into  a  hundred  slivers.  The  knife  blades  serve  as 
springs,  which,  when  released,  shoot  pats  of  butter  against 
the  wall.  Plates  are  spun  on  the  floor.  Spoons  are  rattled 
against  the  tea  cups.  The  waiters  cross  the  hall,  carrying 
trays  of  food  above  their  heads.  A  tray  makes  a  good 
target.  Bang!  One  down.  Roast  beef,  celery,  ice  cream 
and  chowder  are  splattered  over  the  floor  and  the  waiter 
himself,  who  runs  for  refuge  with  a  hot  clam  nestled  in  his 
ear.  A  shower  of  baked  potatoes  and  biscuit  falls  about 
him.     A  water  pitcher  just  misses  his  head.     He  crawls 


20  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

under  a  table.  The  table  is  overturned,  and  the  dishes  and 
food  are  spread  helter-skelter.  One  good  turn  deserves 
another.  A  second  table  is  upset.  Then  a  third.  Ten  more 
trays  go  down  simultaneously. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  serpent  feeds. 

Then,  hungrier  than  ever,  it  leaves  the  hall,  climbing 
over  ridges  of  broken  china,  swimming  through  puddles  of 
gravy  and  milk,  wading  through  marshes  of  custards  and 
mashed  potatoes,  slipping  on  vegetables  and  olives,  sliding 
on  salads  and  bananas,  squashing  and  smashing  all  under  its 
thousand  feet.  Onward  it  creeps,  still  dissatisfied  with  the 
ruin  and  devastation  which  it  has  left  behind  it.  Onward, 
onward  to  continue  its  destruction. 

A  snake  may  be  cut  into  several  pieces,  and  each  part 
seems  to  retain  the  life  and  energy  of  the  complete  body. 
The  larger  part  of  the  serpent  had  entered  the  dining  hall. 
Other  smaller  parts  had  squirmed  off  in  other  directions. 
What  had  become  of  the  head?  of  the  tail?  Where  were 
Tom  Kuhler  and  the  girl  with  the  white  plume  ? 

Kuhler  was  a  senior,  and  this  was  his  last  game  of  foot- 
ball at  the  university.  It  was  the  great  climax  of  his  athletic 
career,  and  he  was  anxiously  waiting  to  celebrate  it.  The 
training-table,  where  the  squad  had  been  fed  during  practice, 
was  in  the  basement  of  a  certain  house  which  catered  mainly 
to  student  trade.  Several  smaller  pieces  of  the  serpent  had 
found  their  way  into  the  smaller  dining  rooms  of  this  board- 
ing house,  where  the  same  spirit  prevailed  that  we  saw  at 
the  large  dining  hall.  The  head  of  the  serpent — Kuhler  and 
his  victorious  team — was  at  its  usual  trough.  The  windows 
of  this  basement  were  on  a  level  with  the  street,  so  that 
passers-by  could  easily  see  through  them  without  exertion. 
The  curtains  were  usually  not  drawn,  but  for  this  special 
occasion  all  but  one  of  the  windows  were  shaded.  The  girl 
with  the  white  plume  was  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  gazing 
through  this  window  at  her  hero,  who  was  carousing  with 
his  squad;  for  this  was  the  night  that  the  team  broke 
training. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  21 

We  have  seen  Tom  Kuhler  at  a  distance.  Let  us  also 
peep  through  the  window  to  get  a  closer  view  of  this  mod- 
ern Hercules. 

He  sat  at  the  head  of  a  table  which  was  groaning  under 
the  weight  of  champagne  bottles  and  heaped-up  platters  of 
meat  and  fruit.  He  had  a  head  of  hair  like  a  mop  of  hemp. 
His  teeth  were  prominent  and  milky  white,  permanently 
rooted  in  a  pair  of  iron  jaws.  His  lips  were  thick,  and  wet 
with  wine.  His  cheeks  were  Hke  two  patches  of  red  flannel. 
He  was  pug-nosed ;  a  few  hairs  extended  from  his  nos- 
trils. His  sensual  eyes  flashed  like  the  discharge  of  a 
cannon.  His  back  was  a  mountain  of  muscle,  and  his 
limbs  were  like  mighty  pillars  of  marble.  His  hands  were 
large  and  plump;  his  fingers,  firm  and  thick;  his  nails,  well 
defined.  His  chest  rose  and  fell  like  the  tide — for  it  seemed 
his  lungs  were  large  enough  to  retain  sufficient  air  to  sup- 
ply him  for  an  entire  day.  Brutal  as  his  actions  were 
on  the  gridiron,  we  find  him  fascinating — this  handsome 
human  ox. 

The  strength  and  the  appearance  of  the  husky  athlete 
had  completely  deprived  this  girl  of  her  reason — this  girl 
who  stood  on  the  pavement  watching  his  every  move,  just  as 
she  had  done  at  the  field.  A  girl  friend  stood  beside  the 
white-plumed  creature,  trying  to  pull  her  away  from  the 
window,  but  her  efforts  were  futile;  it  seemed  Kuhler  had 
chained  her  there. 

"He's  goin'  to  make  a  speech,"  rattled  the  tail  of  the  ser- 
pent ;  and  she  tried  to  open  the  window. 

"Do  come  away,"  pleaded  her  friend.  "Your  mother 
doesn't  know  you  are  here.  She  wouldn't  want  you  to  be 
here  either." 

"I  can't  leave  him ;  I  simply  can't." 

"Bah !  he  doesn't  give  a  rap  for  you,"  said  her  friend,  in 
a  discouraging  tone. 

"How  do  you  know  ?    He  has  never  met  me." 

"Do  you  expect  to  meet  him  ?" 

"Sure  thing!" 

"How?" 


22  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

"Just  wait  and  see.  Gee!  but  he  is  handsome.  Just 
imagine  havin'  them  arms  around  you !" 

"Do  come  away,"  said  the  friend  persuasively. 

"Look  at  his  eyes.  Did  you  ever  see  such  lamps?  My 
God,  how  they  burn  me !"  panted  the  unfortunate  victim. 

By  this  time  Kuhler  had  arisen  and  begun  his  speech. 
The  girl  had  succeeded  in  lifting  the  window  a  small  dis- 
tance, but  no  one  had  noticed  it.  She  could  now  hear  his 
voice  very  distinctly. 

"Well,  boys,"  said  Kuhler,  "the  season's  over,  an'  the 
vict'ry's  ours.  We  played  a  great  game;  we  did.  That 
score'U  ga  down  in  hist'ry.  It'll  puff  the  reputation  ove  the 
univers'ty  tenfold.  We  make  this  univers'ty  w'at  she  is, 
boys.  If  football  wuz  'bolished,  this  univers'ty  'ud  go  ta  the 
dogs.    Three  cheers  fur  football !" 

The  team  cheered,  while  Kuhler  drained  another  glass 
of  sparkling  Burgundy. 

"Next  year  I  won't  be  here,"  continued  the  hero. 

The  girl  at  the  window  sighed. 

"But,"  he  added,  "I  want  'a  spur  ya  on — those  ove  ya 
who  '11  return  in  the  fall — ta  do  even  better  work  in  the 
future.  I  don't  need  ta  tell  ya  not  'a  study  too  damn  hard 
over  yer  books." 

A  smile  appeared  on  all  the  faces  around  the  table. 

"A  football  star  'as  never  yet  been  known  ta  flunk  out. 
The  univers'ty  which  'ud  permit  such  a  thing  'ud  be  com- 
mittin'  suicide.  What  ya  want  'a  do  is  ta  give  football  all 
yer  attention.  Concentrate  yer  efforts  on  that.  Muscle! 
Mountains  ove  it !  Gray  matter  don't  matter.  Good  ani- 
mals— that's  w'at  we  want — ^that's  w'at  we  need.  Football 
ain't  a  game  fur  babies,  but  that's  w'at  the're  tryin'  ta  make 
out  ove  it.  I  want  ya  all  ta  work  hard  an'  save  the  game 
an'  restore  it.  Don't  become  too  inconveniently  spir'tu'l.  I 
want  ya  ta  yearn  again  fur  the  good  old  days  ove  brutal- 
izin'  vict'ries,  as  our  encouragin'  Alumani  Weekly  puts  it. 

"And  now  jist  a  few  words  more,  boys:  We  'ave  kept 
in  trainin'  fur  a  long  time,  an'  stored  an'  saved  energy  fur 
the  final  game  ove  the  year.     We  'xpended  a  great  part 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  23 

ove  that  energy  ta-day  fur  our  Alma  Mater.  It's  ta  be 
hoped  that  we  still  'ave  some  left,  fur  our  own  pers'nal 
enjoyment.  A  good  deed  deserves  a  reward.  We  'ave  been 
'good  boys'  fur  a  long  time,  an'  'ave  at  least  tried  ta  stay 
away  frum  the  habits  which  ere  believed  to  harm  the 
athalete.  But  such  things  ere  no  longer  denied  us —  fur  a 
time  at  least.  Our  season  ove  work's  over ;  our  season  ove 
pleasure  begins — ta-night." 

"Tonight,"  shouted  the  team. 

"Tonight,"  gasped  the  tail  of  the  serpent. 

Then  the  glasses  were  refilled,  and  all  drank  to  the 
health  of  Tom  Kuhler.  The  banquet  ended  with  a  long 
cheer  for  the  hero,  in  which  the  white  plume  participated. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Tom  Kuhler  was  standing  before 
a  house  on  Walnut  Street.  There  was  light  in  the  windows 
on  the  second  floor.  The  windows  on  the  first  floor  were 
dark,  but  the  curtain  on  one  of  them  was  drawn  aside  a 
little,  and  a  pair  of  sharp  eyes  watched  every  move  of  the 
man  who  stood  on  the  curbstone  with  two  girls,  one  of 
whom  wore  a  long  white  plume  on  her  hat.  The  smaller 
window  in  the  garret  was  also  dark,  but  the  sweet  strains 
of  a  violin  came  floating  from  it. 

"Hello,  Arch  Coddington,"  shouted  Kuhler. 

"Hello,"  came  the  muffled  reply. 

"Stick  yer  head  out  the  window." 

A  window  on  the  second  floor  was  thrown  open,  and  a 
student  leaned  over  the  sill. 

"What  in  the  hell  are  you  after?"  asked  Coddington. 

"I've  got  somethin'  here  that's  never  been  touched," 
answered  Kuhler. 

"Hurray — Hurrah  '."exclaimed  the  student  at  the  window. 

"Will  I  fetch  it  up?" 

"You  could  never  get  past  the  watchdog,"  was  the  reply. 
"But  wait  a  second." 

The  lights  went  out,  and  so  did  Coddington.  The  cur- 
tain on  the  first  floor  closed  again;  the  vioHn  was  still 
playing  softly  in  the  garret. 


24  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

When  the  team  breaks  training  at  the  end  of  the  foot- 
ball season,  the  whole  student-body  seems  to  follow  its 
example.  All  sorts  of  training — manners,  laws,  respect, 
courtesy,  manliness,  everything — are  broken.  Restraint 
fades  and  vanishes.  Students  who  seemed  to  be  the  very 
models  for  their  class  lose  every  trace  of  refinement  and 
dignity,  and  join  the  common  rabble.  Let  us  continue  to 
follow  the  serpent  of  victory,  and  see  what  has  become  of 
its  dissociated  sections. 

There  is  one  piece  of  it  in  every  down-town  saloon. 
These  are  crowded  to  the  doors.  In  them  the  animal  con- 
tinues to  glut,  quafif,  spit  and  puke,  as  columns  of  smoke 
arise  from  its  hide. 

That  part  which  has  been  denied  admittance  to  the 
saloons  creeps  and  crawls  up  and  down  the  avenue.  There 
is  one  unbroken  stream  of  students,  graduates,  gamins, 
harlots,  ticket-speculators,  fakers  and  venders.  Half  of 
them  are  saturated  with  drink;  the  others  are  joy-mad. 
The  venders  blow  their  horns  in  the  ears  of  the  pedestrians. 
The  gamins  snatch  off  hats  and  pick  pockets.  The  drunk- 
ards stagger  along,  colliding  with  women.  The  students 
fling  confetti  into  the  faces  of  young  girls.  A  sophomore 
lies  rolling  in  the  gutter.  An  old  "grad"  is  vomiting  in  the 
middle  of  the  sidewalk.  A  peddler's  cart  is  upset,  scattering 
peanuts  and  caramels  over  the  street.  A  trolley  car  is 
blockaded ;  the  students  climb  to  the  roof  of  it,  and  some 
enter,  and  insult  the  passengers.  Automobiles,  filled  with 
mothers  and  sisters,  glide  along  with  the  winning  colors 
streaming  behind  them. 

Then  the  doors  of  the  theatre  open.  Seats  have  been 
selling  at  double  and  triple  their  regular  prices,  but  this 
does  not  turn  the  serpent  away.  It  writhes  through  the 
lobby  into  the  parquet.  Parts  of  it  climb  the  stairs.  It 
greedily  occupies  every  seat  in  the  house,  not  only  every 
seat  but  every  square  foot  of  space. 

The  curtain  rises.  The  chorus  enters.  Flowers  and 
loaf  sugar  are  hurled  at  the  soubrettes.  Soon  they  stand 
knee-deep  in  an  ocean  of  colored  streamers,  which  have 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  25 

been  hurled  to  the  stage  from  all  parts  of  the  house.  A 
shower  of  confetti  falls  gracefully  from  the  gallery.  Sev- 
eral pigeons  are  liberated  from  coat-pockets;  they  fly 
through  the  air  frantically,  and  then  roost  on  the  tops  of 
the  boxes.  A  cackling  chicken  flies  over  the  footlights  and 
disappears  in  the  wings.  A  squealing  cat  lights  on  milady's 
coiffure  in  the  orchestra  circle. 

"Repeat  that  song!  Repeat  that  song!  Repeat  that 
song !"  shouts  the  serpent. 

The  song  is  repeated,  and  the  ocean  of  streamers  rises 
higher  and  higher. 

"Repeat  it  again!    Repeat  it  again!" 

The  chorus  repeats  it  several  times  and  then  leaves  the 
stage. 

"We  want  more  song !  We  want  more  song !  We  want 
more  song!" 

A  comedian  appears. 

"Take  off  that  hat !  Take  off  that  hat !  Take  off  that 
hat!" 

The  comedian  refuses  to  remove  his  chapeau.  Bang! 
an  orange  has  done  it  for  him. 

"Take  off  that  mustache!     Take  off  that  mustache!" 

The  comedian,  fearing  more  fruit,  obeys. 

"Put  it  on  again!  Put  it  on  again!  Put  it  on 
again !" 

He  does  so. 

"Take  it  off!    Take  it  off!    Take  it  off!    Take  it  off !" 

The  actor  loses  his  temper,  picks  up  the  orange,  throws 
it  at  a  student  in  the  front  row.  Then  he  rushes  off  the 
stage — a  volley  of  lemons  after  him. 

"We  want  that  man!  We  want  that  man!  We  want 
that  man !" 

The  actor  does  not  reappear. 

"We  want  that  man!  We  want  that  man!  We  want 
that  man !" 

No  sign  of  the  comedian. 

"We  want  that  man!  We  want  that  man!  We  want 
that  man !" 


26  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

The  leading  lady  steps  on  the  stage  in  a  costume  which 
at  any  other  time  would  have  created  a  sensation,  but  her 
presence  is  ignored. 

"We  want  that  man!  We  want  that  man!  We  want 
that  man !" 

She  begins  to  sing.  At  least,  her  Hps  are  moving, 
although  the  audience  hears  nothing  but  its  own  deafening 
clamor. 

"We  want  that  man!  We  want  that  man!  We  want 
that  man !" 

The  manager  sends  the  chorus  on  again,  hoping  to  pacify 
the  mob,  but  in  vain. 

"We  want  that  man !  We  want  that  man !  We  want 
that  man !" 

The  comedian  is  trembling  and  cursing  behind  the  scenes. 
He  refuses  to  appear. 

"We  want  that  man!  We  want  that  man!  We  want 
that  man !" 

More  streamers ;  more  confetti ;  more  lemons ;  more 
sugar. 

"We  want  that  man !  We  want  that  man !  We  want 
that  man !" 

But  the  comedian  has  left  the  theatre  in  terror,  and  is 
on  his  way  to  the  hotel. 

"We  want  that  man!  We  want  that  man!  We  want 
that  man !" 

The  curtain  descends  slowly;  the  serpent  hisses. 

"We  want  more  show !  We  want  more  show !  We  want 
more  show !" 

This  cry  is  kept  up  for  fully  twenty  minutes.  Then  the 
curtain  rises.  The  stage  is  empty.  The  scenery  has  been 
removed.  The  actors  have  withdrawn  from  their  dressing 
rooms.  The  manager,  fearing  a  riot,  has  left  the  theatre, 
taking  his  whole  show  with  him. 

"We  want  our  money  back !  We  want  our  money 
back !" 

"Boycott  the  theatre !  Boycott  the  theatre  !  Boycott  the 
theatre !" 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  27 

"Riot!    Riot!    Riot!    Riot!    Riot!" 

"Tear  down  the  house!  Tear  down  the  house!  Tear 
down  the  house !" 

The  serpent  is  wild,  furious,  mad — mad  because  it  has 
been  defeated  after  its  glorious  victory  on  the  gridiron.  It 
needs  but  one  student  to  start  the  work  of  destruction,  and 
then  the  whole  student-body  will  join  him.  The  angry 
animal  will  chew,  crush,  mangle,  beat,  tear,  strangle,  demol- 
ish anything  and  everything  which  is  within  its  reach.  Sev- 
eral volunteers  arise,  but  they  sink  back  into  their  seats; 
their  courage  fails  them.  Finally,  one  student  jumps  over 
the  railing,  and  glides  across  the  front  of  the  stage,  drag- 
ging a  chair  through  the  trough  of  footlights.  The  lamps 
are  shattered,  one  after  the  other,  giving  rise  to  a  series  of 
shots  like  those  from  a  repeating  musket.  Powdered  glass 
flies  in  all  directions.  Another  student  seizes  the  draperies, 
rips  them  down  and  tears  them  to  shreds.  The  same  act  is 
repeated  in  the  boxes  on  the  other  side  of  the  theatre,  where 
the  banister  is  also  beaten  to  splinters.  Students  stand  up 
and  kick  their  feet  through  the  velvet  seats  of  the  chairs 
in  the  orchestra  circle.  The  danger  point  has  been  reached. 
The  women  are  leaving  the  house.  One  man,  with  brute 
strength,  unrivets  the  iron  legs  of  a  chair  from  the  floor 
and  hurls  it  across  the  orchestra  pit.  Others  follow  his 
example.  Several  rows  of  seats  are  ripped  up  in  the 
balcony  and  thrown  forcefully  one  by  one  upon  the  stage, 
where  they  form  a  pile  several  feet  high.  One  chair  strikes 
a  girl.  She  is  killed  instantly,  but  the  chaos  is  so  fearful 
that  no  one  notices  how  she  is  carried  from  the  theatre 
dead.  The  house  is  gradually  clearing.  A  part  of  the 
serpent  fears  that  it  might  destroy  itself.  As  that  part  leaves 
the  building,  it  smashes  the  glass  doors  in  the  lobby,  and 
brickbats  the  electric  light  sign  over  the  entrance.  The  part 
of  the  animal  which  remains  in  the  auditorium  seems  to 
have  an  insatiable  appetite.  It  does  not  cease  its  pillage 
until  it  uproots  several  more  rows  of  chairs,  snatches  down 
the  Hfe-sized  framed  pictures  of  Mansfield,  Irwin,  Terry, 
Marlowe  and  Jefferson,  and  throws  them,  together  with 


28  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

other  miscellaneous  contributions,  upon  the  heap  of  debris, 
which  has  already  completely  covered  the  stage  floor. 

Where  were  the  police?  They  were  in  the  midst  of  it 
all,  but  what  good  are  police  in  a  riot  of  this  kind !  What 
cares  the  infuriated  serpent  for  the  gashes  it  receives  from 
their  maces?  It  laughs,  hisses  and  spits  in  the  very  face 
of  a  revolver. 

A  university !  A  place  for  learning !  A  thoroughly 
civilized  community  !  This  is  the  type  of  man  you  graduate. 
This  is  the  outcome  of  the  great  football  contest  on  which 
your  reputation  is  founded.  It  is  for  the  encouragement  of 
this  barbaric  sport  that  you  erect  your  million-dollar  stad- 
iums. Wonderful  Football!  Glorious  Football!  Noble 
Football!  Onward!  Onward,  thou  frenzied  serpent  of 
victory !  Onward,  leaving  injury,  death,  crime,  murder, 
and  ruin,  in  thy  path ! 

The  theatre  was  a  complete  wreck.  The  serpent  stood 
and  grinned  with  satisfaction  upon  the  demolition  which 
it  had  wrought. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  havoc,  a  drunken  "grad"  rushed 
upon  the  stage,  and,  standing  upon  the  heap  of  ruined  furni- 
ture and  decorations  with  outstretched  arms,  he  cried:  "A 
long  cheer  for  Tom  Kuhler."  The  serpent  squealed  until 
the  walls  of  the  theatre  trembled  as  the  name  of  Kuhler 
rang  nine  times  across  the  scene  of  destruction. 

But  where  was  our  illustrious  hero  ? 


CHAPTER   III 


ALICE    AND    ALLAINE 


Samuel  Milton  was  a  musician,  who  died  in  the  heyday 
of  his  career  as  an  artist.  He  was  survived  by  his  widow, 
Alice,  and  his  son,  Paul.  He  had  provided  them  with  a 
simple  little  cottage  and  a  small  capital,  the  income  of  which 
was  sufficient  to  furnish  clothing  and  food. 

The  widow  could  not  offer  her  boy  the  numerous  oppor- 
tunities which  are  lavished  on  the  sons  of  well-to-do  par- 
ents, and  which  these  sons  seldom  appreciate  or  utiHze. 
But  Paul's  heritage  from  his  father  was  something  more 
precious  than  the  gold  which  the  rich  bequeath  to  their 
children,  and  which  is  often  the  cause  of  their  unrest  and 
degradation.  The  life  of  Samuel  Milton  was  stainless, 
and  Paul  came  into  the  world  without  a  blemish. 

Alice  Milton  was  a  very  beautiful  and  cultured  woman. 
She  had  had  many  ardent  admirers  but  had  refused  their 
oft-repeated  proposals  to  await  the  husband  whom  destiny 
was  reserving  for  her.  She  had  learned  that  wealth  was 
not  always  happiness,  and  that  the  men  who  possessed  it 
were  seldom  loyal  to  their  sweethearts  or  wives.  The  sim- 
ple, poetic  life  of  a  musician  appealed  to  her;  it  seemed 
nearer  to  nature,  nearer  to  God,  more  like  the  life  of  a 
bird,  in  contrast  with  the  mere  animal  existence  common 
among  men  who  had  fallen  heirs  to  vast  fortunes. 

She  saw  and  heard  Samuel  Milton  the  first  time  at  a 
private  musicale,  where  she  was  at  once  charmed  by  the 
moral  beauty  reflected  from  his  countenance  and  by  the 
soul  and  colour  which  characterized  his  art.  She  longed  to 
share  the  sweet  solitude  which  enveloped  this  man's  life. 
She  longed  to  make  him  happier,  for  it  seemed  he  was 


30  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

speaking  to  his  audience  through  his  violin,  and  his  mes- 
sage— as  she  interpreted  it — was  one  of  sadness  and  yearn- 
ing. Strangely  enough,  during  the  rendition  of  one  number 
on  his  program,  the  large  dark  eyes  gazed  into  the  still 
deep  blue  of  her  own,  and  then  only  did  the  tone  from  his 
beloved  instrument  seem  to  indicate  that  his  soul  was  calm. 
It  had  found  that  perfect  contentment — the  absence  of  agita- 
tion and  suffering — which  often  steals  over  us  when  we 
couch  upon  the  soft,  warm  sand  of  some  unmolested  shore 
and  become  charmed  by  the  infinite  tranquillity  of  the  sea. 

It  was  then  and  there  that  God  wedded  their  souls,  and 
the  object  of  His  union  seemed  that  of  bringing  Paul  into 
the  world ;  for  it  was  very  shortly  after  the  birth  of  the  son 
that  the  musician  was  called  away.  God  had  gifted  the 
father  with  musical  genius  to  keep  him  upright  and  free 
from  vulgar  associations,  and,  after  his  spotless  character 
was  purely  transmitted  and  safely  planted  in  the  child,  God 
took  the  musician  under  his  own  wing  and  relieved  the 
mother  of  duties  to  the  husband  in  order  that  she  might 
give  the  little  son  her  undivided  attention  and  preserve  him 
for  that  deed  of  service  for  which  he  had  been  modeled  by 
the  Creator. 

Never  was  a  mother  more  attached  to  her  babe.  She 
remained  constantly  at  its  side.  She  felt  that,  were  they 
separated,  it  would  grow  cold.  She  believed  it  was  the 
flame  of  maternal  love  in  her  own  bosom  which  kept  the 
child  alive  and  that  the  closer  she  remained  to  it  the  warmer 
the  little  heart  became.  At  night  she  could  not  sleep  unless 
she  felt  the  warmth  of  its  tiny  hand  resting  upon  her  own 
cheek.     Her  babe  was  a  part  of  her — an  inseparable  part. 

As  soon  as  Paul  grew  older,  she  began  to  teach  him 
little  by  little.  The  child  had  few  toys  for  instruction  or 
amusement.  The  mother  could  not  afford  them.  But  she 
did  take  long  walks  through  the  public  parks  and  acquaint 
him  with  the  flowers  along  the  paths  and  with  the  real 
animals  in  the  cages  at  the  zoo.  He  loved  to  watch  the 
highly  colored  birds  hopping  from  perch  to  perch;  in  fact 
he  Hked  everything  that  was  to  be  seen  there — everything 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  31 

but  the  serpents,  in  particular  the  huge  rattlesnake  writhing 
under  glass.    He  loathed  that. 

All  these  natural  objects  made  an  impression  on  his 
mind.  He  had  observed  them  very  closely.  One  day  the 
widow  found  him  making  a  little  park  on  the  sand  pile  in 
the  garden  behind  the  cottage.  She  stopped  her  household 
work  to  help  him.  She  knelt  on  the  cool  grass  and  traced 
out  a  network  of  paths  and  driveways,  while  he  gathered 
flowers  from  the  bushes  and  the  meadow  across  the  road. 
She  bordered  the  driveways  with  rows  of  tiny  white  buttons, 
whose  shortened  stems  were  pressed  firmly  into  the  moist 
earth.  Larger  flowers  were  used  to  represent  flower  beds. 
A  pie  pan,  filled  with  water  and  placed  in  the  middle  of 
the  plot,  served  for  a  lake,  in  which  a  white  lily,  standing 
upright,  sufficed  for  a  marble  fountain. 

The  boy  removed  the  petals  from  a  daisy  and  scattered 
them  upon  the  water. 

"What  are  those,  dear?"  asked  the  mother. 

"Swans,"  answered  Paul. 

Then  he  likewise  strewed  some  yellow  petals  from  a 
dandelion. 

"And  those?"  inquired  the  widow. 

"Gold  fish." 

A  bleeding-heart  blossom  was  pulled  apart,  and  the  two 
halves  were  placed  at  the  edge  of  the  pan. 

"They  are  rabbits  drinking,"  explained  the  boy. 

He  constructed  a  small  cage  by  sticking  daisy  stems  into 
the  sand,  and  in  it  he  placed  a  black  and  yellow  cater- 
pillar. 

"That's  a  tiger,"  he  shouted  joyfully. 

The  widow  was  delighted  with  the  fact  that  his  imagi- 
nation could  transform  these  insignificant  things  into  the 
animals  he  had  seen  at  the  zoo.  The  children  of  the  rich 
had  expensive  toys — tigers  and  rabbits  with  real  fur — tigers 
that  actually  roared  when  their  tails  were  twisted.  Paul 
had  to  imagine  all  this,  and  the  perfect  Httle  brain,  with 
which  God  had  blessed  him,  began  to  develop  firmly  as  a 
result  of  it.     To  appreciate  the  toys  of  other  children  no 


32  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

mental  effort  was  required,  and  in  consequence  their  minds 
remained  sluggish  and  inactive.  They  seemed  to  have  the 
same  wooden  and  sawdust  brains  as  the  animals  with  which 
they  played. 

Paul  was  the  brightest  boy  in  his  class.  His  mother 
never  had  to  assist  him  with  his  lessons,  but  she  often  wept 
the  entire  day  when  he  started  out  at  morning  with  a  book 
under  his  arm.  To  her,  it  was  the  beginning  of  his  prepara- 
tion for  service  to  the  world — the  service  for  which  she 
must  eventually  give  him  up.  Until  this  time  she  had  been 
his  only  companion  and  playmate.  Now  he  would  form  new 
acquaintances  and  make  other  friends — friends  who,  per- 
haps, would  weaken  his  affection  for  her.  It  was  this 
thought  which  caused  her  to  seize  him  each  afternoon  when 
he  returned  from  school  and  to  press  him  selfishly,  almost 
madly,  to  her  bosom,  as  if  to  smother  the  memory  of  his 
schoolmates  and  reawaken  his  love  for  her ;  for  she  believed 
the  love  was  not  so  warm  as  it  had  been.  After  all,  her 
boy  was  all  she  had  in  the  world :  We  must  try  to  forgive 
this  selfishness  on  her  part. 

One  night  as  they  sat  together  at  the  little  table  with  its 
bright  red  cloth  and  its  old-fashioned  oil-lamp,  whose  light 
fell  steadily  upon  his  open  primer,  the  widow  glanced  up 
from  her  needlework  and  said:  "Paul,  how  do  you  like 
your  new  friends  ?" 

"What  friends  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

"Your  schoolmates,"  answered  the  mother. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  them  yet,"  said  Paul,  without  lifting 
his  eyes  from  his  spelling  lesson. 

"Don't  you  speak  to  them  ?"  inquired  the  mother. 

"No ;  I  walk  home  alone." 

"Don't  they  ever  speak  to  you  ?" 

"No,  but  today  the  little  girl  across  the  aisle  from  me 
put  this  note  on  my  desk." 

He  handed  his  mother  an  envelope,  which  he  had  placed 
between  the  leaves  of  his  book.  His  own  name  was  written 
upon  it  with  lead  pencil  in  a  large  childish  hand.  The 
mother  opened  it  and  found  an  engraved  invitation  inside — 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  33 

an   invitation   to   a   children's   party   which   Mrs.   Wallace 
Bennett  was  giving  in  honor  of  her  little  daughter,  AUaine. 

"It's  an  invitation  to  a  party,  dear — a  party  on  Thursday 
night,"  said  the  mother. 

"What's  a  party  ?"  asked  Paul  dryly. 

"A  gathering  of  little  boys  and  girls  like  yourself." 

"And  what  do  they  do  there?" 

"They  play  games  and  have  cake  and  ice  cream." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Don't  you  care  to  go  ?" 

"No,  Mother;  I  would  rather  stay  home  with  you  and 
learn  my  spelHng  lesson  for  the  next  morning." 

This  answer  pleased  the  widow:  From  it  she  learned 
that  it  was  the  boy's  interest  in  his  books,  and  not  in  his 
friends,  that  had  detracted  his  attention  from  her.  And 
yet  she  had  also  discovered,  that,  although  he  did  not  seem 
to  care  for  his  classmates,  nevertheless  one  of  his  classmates 
seemed  to  care  considerably  for  him.  That  classmate  was 
a  Httle  girl. 

This  discovery  threw  the  widow  into  a  pensive  mood.  Her 
thoughts  darted  into  the  future :  would  the  time  come  when 
some  other  woman  would  win  her  boy's  heart?  when  some 
other  woman  would  steal  him  from  her,  and  then  treat  her 
with  disdain  perhaps,  and  influence  her  son  to  do  the  same? 

The  childish  love  affair  between  Paul  and  Mrs.  Bennett's 
daughter  did  not  disturb  her,  but  it  did  suggest  the  more 
mature  affections,  which  might  later  play  an  important 
part  in  his  life.  She  understood  the  present  situation  per- 
fectly. The  engraved  invitation  and  the  address  written  in 
lead  pencil  were  comically  inconsistent.  Mrs.  Bennett  knew 
nothing  of  it.  The  widow  decided  the  child  had  secured 
the  announcement  while  the  social  secretary  was  addressing 
them  to  the  children  of  Mrs.  Bennett's  friends.  The  widow 
had  never  even  seen  Mrs.  Bennett,  and  Mrs.  Bennett  knew 
nothing  of  her  daughter's  attachment  to  Paul;  she  would 
very  likely  not  permit  such  a  thing,  because  the  Bennetts 
were  well-to-do.  Furthermore,  it  was  a  one-sided  love 
affair :    Paul  did  not  seem  to  manifest  the  slightest  interest 


34  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

in  the  other  child.  He  was  too  busy  with  his  books.  And 
even  if  he  had  wanted  to  attend  the  party,  she  would  have 
been  reluctant — in  fact  she  would  have  refused  to  grant 
him  permission  to  go.  But  how  it  would  have  pained  the 
widow  to  refuse  anything  to  her  son!  She  had  always 
allowed  him  to  have  his  own  way,  which,  as  far  as  she 
could  see,  was  always  a  good  and  a  right  way.  His  attitude 
in  regard  to  attending  this  party  was  an  example  of  it. 

And  Alice  Milton  continued  to  sew,  and  Paul  continued 
to  study. 

The  Bennetts  were  the  most  fashionable  and  most  exclu- 
sive family  in  the  town  of  Norford.  Willow  Lodge — for 
such  was  the  name  they  had  given  to  their  mansion  and  the 
grounds  which  surrounded  it — occupied  a  whole  square  in 
the  very  center  of  the  community. 

Mrs.  Wallace  Bennett  was  at  the  top  notch  of  society. 
Her  mother,  Mrs.  Q.  MacRae  Kensington,  had  held  the 
same  position  formerly,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Bennett's  ambition 
to  see  her  own  daughter  capture  it  in  the  future. 

Mrs.  Bennett's  early  education  was  conducted  by  a  pri- 
vate governess,  who  drilled  her  very  thoroughly  in  French 
and  Art.  Afterwards  she  attended  a  very  fashionable 
ladies'  seminary  and  took  special  courses  in  aesthetic  danc- 
ing, social  etiquette  and  horseback  riding.  Mrs.  Bennett 
was  purely  ornamental,  as  was  everything  with  which  she 
surrounded  herself.  She  was  tall,  slender,  pink  and  white, 
graceful,  and  charming.  She  could  speak  French  beauti- 
fully but  usually  said  nothing  when  she  did  so. 

She  had  twenty-four  servants,  six  horses,  four  terriers, 
three  Packards  and  a  cat. 

She  called  the  cat  Richelieu.  He  received  her  personal 
attention ;  Allaine  had  a  maid.  He  was  a  rather  playful  cat 
with  long,  golden,  silky  hair  like  that  of  his  mistress.  When 
the  hostess  held  a  reception,  Richelieu  was  trained  to  sit  on 
one  corner  of  the  white  marble  mantelpiece,  with  one  paw 
on  the  stem  of  a  large  red  rose,  which  hung  gracefully  over 
the  edge  of  the  mantelshelf.     If  the  paw  grew  tired,  he 


THE  NEW   FRATERNITY  35 

would  change  to  the  other  and  sometimes  drop  the  rose 
while  doing  so — in  which  case  Mrs.  Bennett  would  scold 
him  very  severely  (in  French)  and  spank  him  gently  with 
that  pretty  red  rose  before  replacing  it.  The  whipping 
always  hurt  Mrs.  Bennett  more  than  it  hurt  Richelieu,  and 
after  it  was  over,  she  would  caress  him  lovingly  and  allow 
him  to  brush  her  soft  velvety  cheeks  with  his  pretty,  long, 
white  whiskers.  Richelieu  slept  in  a  silk-lined  basket  on  the 
foot  of  Mrs.  Bennett's  bed ;  Allaine  had  a  room  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall. 

Mr.  Wallace  Bennett  was  an  alumnus  of  the  the  univer- 
sity. He  had  met  Mrs.  Bennett  at  the  Promenade  and  mar- 
ried her  the  year  after  graduation.  Both  were  wealthy. 
Mrs.  Bennett  lavished  her  fortune  on  her  house,  her  clothes 
and  her  entertainments.  Mr.  Bennett  had  become  inter- 
ested in  the  education  of  the  poor  and  was  giving  large 
sums  for  that  purpose.  He  had  observed  in  his  under- 
graduate days  that  it  was  the  poorer  students  who  took  the 
greatest  interest  in  scholarship;  in  fact  he  decided  they 
were  the  only  real  scholars  in  the  university.  He  noticed 
also  that  the  number  of  such  scholars  was  small.  Educa- 
tion at  the  institutes  of  higher  learning  was  becoming  more 
or  less  of  a  farce ;  the  colleges  and  schools  were  mere  cen- 
ters of  pleasure  and  fashion.  He  wanted  to  bring  them 
back  to  their  original  purpose,  which  meant  that  he  must 
seek  several  promising  boys,  whose  mental  qualities  had 
not  been  stunted  by  the  indolence  and  indifference  which 
go  hand  in  hand  with  wealth.  He  must  expect  help  only 
from  the  poorer  lads  who  could  and  would  appreciate  the 
real  advantages  of  learning  and  whose  minds  were  capable 
of  study  and  thought. 

Mr.  Bennett's  own  experience  at  the  university  always 
afforded  him  an  excellent  example  in  a  waste  of  time  and 
money.  He  had  made  numerous  friends,  but  when  he  left 
the  campus  he  had  to  leave  them  also,  whereas  he  might 
have  taken  his  education  with  him — had  he  received  one. 
He  always  regretted  the  fact  that  he  had  not  paid  more 
attention  to  his  books. 


36  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

There  was  another  product  of  fashionable  and  pleasur- 
able education  constantly  before  him:  it  was  his  own  wife. 
To  his  eyes,  as  to  most  youthful  eyes,  she  had  appeared 
wonderful  at  first,  but  the  poor  man  had  made  only  a  super- 
ficial study  of  his  bride,  and  after  his  marriage  soon  reahzed 
that  he  had  wedded  nothing  more  than  a  beautifully  gowned 
figure  with  a  hollow  head.  Her  conversation,  her  dinners, 
her  bridge  tables,  her  cotillions,  her  tallyho  rides  to  the 
Country  Club,  her  swimming  parties,  her  dawn  teas — -all 
these  things  amused  him  at  first,  but  after  constant  repeti- 
tion they  began  to  bore  him.  To  his  mind  Willow  Lodge 
was  not  a  home;  it  was  a  public  auditorium,  restaurant, 
gymnasium,  music  hall  and  hotel,  filled  from  morning  till 
night  and  from  night  till  morning  with  a  clattering  collec- 
tion of  dolls  and  dandies. 

Mr.  Bennett  finally  refused  to  participate  in  his  wife's 
diversions,  retreating  to  his  library  to  sit  before  the  fire  in 
his  comfortable  arm  chair.  He  was  not  alone  however. 
Little  AUaine  always  kept  him  company,  and  often  while 
the  guests  were  waltzing  in  the  ballroom  or  being  served 
in  the  salon,  Mr.  Bennett  was  helping  his  daughter  with  her 
school  work.  Allaine  was  his  only  comfort.  She  seemed 
a  dozen  times  more  sensible  than  her  mother,  and  her  prattle 
always  amused  him. 

Allaine  was,  in  fact,  a  partial  cause  of  the  loss  of  affec- 
tion between  her  father  and  her  mother.  Mrs.  Bennett 
wanted  her  daughter  under  the  instruction  of  a  gov- 
erness, and  later  she  expected  to  immure  her  at  a  private 
school  on  the  Hudson.  In  fact  she  wanted  to  make  another 
Mrs.  Bennett  of  her.  But  Mr.  Bennett  protested.  There 
was  one  type  of  woman  Allaine  must  not  become,  and  that 
was  the  society-mad  type,  of  which  his  own  wife  was  per- 
haps the  best  and  most  hopeless  example.  This  type  was 
not  a  natural  one.  No  girl  could  even  inherit  such  charac- 
teristics. The  child  herself  took  no  interest  in  her  mother's 
fads,  unless  they  were  held  in  her  honor,  and  in  that  case 
it  was  from  the  standpoint  of  duty  rather  than  pleasure  that 
she  participated  in  them.     It  was  only  environment — silly, 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  37 

senseless  environment  which  brought  girls  to  this  deplorable 
mania  even  against  their  own  wills.  At  least  Mr.  Bennett 
thought  so. 

The  right  side  won  the  conflict,  as  it  usually  does  and 
always  should.  Allaine  was  sent  to  the  public  school,  where 
she  not  only  received  the  necessary  common-sense  instruc- 
tion but  also  met  with  all  sorts  of  boys  and  girls  who 
broadened  her  views  of  life.  Mrs.  Bennett  wept,  but  her 
tears  were  not  those  of  a  mother  whose  child  had  been 
torn  from  her  breast ;  they  were  the  tears  of  a  social  maniac 
who  had  been  defeated  in  an  attempt  to  lure  another  inno- 
cent victim  into  her  whirl  of  fad  and  fashion. 

But  Mrs.  Bennett  did  not  give  up  completely;  she  con- 
tinued to  arrange  parties  very  frequently,  inviting  only  the 
most  fashionable  children  of  the  neighborhood.  The  twin 
daughters  of  Mrs.  Samson  Pokes  always  came  to  these  gath- 
erings in  their  white  limousine,  escorted  by  a  French  maid ; 
but  they  always  sat  by  themselves,  off  in  one  corner,  and 
had  very  little  to  say  to  the  little  hostess.  Mrs.  Pokes 
thought  it  "awful"  to  send  Allaine  among  the  "vulgar  little 
toads"  of  the  public  school,  and  she  even  feared  her  own 
daughters  might  be  "contaminated"  indirectly  by  her  com- 
pany. Indeed  were  it  not  that  Mrs.  Bennett  and  herself 
were  "the  dearest  of  friends,"  she  would  not  permit  the 
children  to  attend  the  parties  at  all.  As  far  as  Mr.  Bennett 
was  concerned,  he  was  a  "monster"  to  expose  his  own 
daughter  to  such  a  "disgrace". 

t 

It  was  Thursday  night — the  night  of  the  party  to  which 
Allaine  had  secretly  invited  Paul  Milton.  Willow  Lodge 
was  ablaze  with  light.  Allaine  was  standing  in  state  at  one 
end  of  the  large  drawing  room  waiting  to  receive  her  guests. 
She  was  not  dressed  so  gorgeously  as  she  had  been  at  her 
earlier  parties,  but  she  looked  very  sweet  and  plain ;  she 
knew  that  Paul  was  too  poor  to  have  a  black  velvet  suit 
like  Peter  Harrison,  and  she  wished  to  be  attired  accord- 
ingly. Each  time  the  door  bell  rang,  she  expected  to  see 
Paul;  but  Paul  never  came. 


38  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

The  evening  passed  around  very  slowly  for  Allaine,  but 
the  other  children  had  a  glorious  time  at  games  and  dancing. 
The  Pokes  twins  sang  a  few  French  ditties,  that  no  one 
understood ;  Allaine  imagined  they  were  making  fun  of  her, 
because  her  little  schoolmate  had  ignored  the  invitation, 
although  she  had  no  reason  to  believe  they  knew  anything 
about  him.  At  table  she  could  eat  nothing;  she  had  lost 
her  appetite.    She  was  lovesick.    Poor  Child ! 

Here  she  was,  surrounded  by  everything  wealth  could 
bring  her — everything  but  Paul  Milton.  Why  didn't  he 
come?  She  had  planned  to  do  so  much  for  him  that  even- 
ing. He  and  she  were  to  have  led  the  cotillion.  Peter  was 
by  no  means  a  substitute  for  Paul.  How  annoying  it  was 
when  Peter  came  near  her !  Twice  he  asked  to  dance ;  twice 
she  refused  him.  The  first  time  she  told  him  her  toe  was 
sore.  The  second  time  she  said  her  toe  was  better,  but  she 
didn't  like  the  music.  Her  toe,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was 
extremely  well,  and  the  music  was  extremely  beautiful. 
Had  it  been  Paul  Milton  in  his  school  clothes  all  covered 
with  chalk-dust,  she  would  have  danced  with  him  over  and 
over  again  even  though  both  the  music  and  her  toe  had  been 
frightfully  painful. 

Paul  was  to  have  sat  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table. 
She  was  going  to  inform  the  butler  to  give  him  the  best  of 
everything  and  a  second  helping  of  ice  cream,  if  he  wished 
it.  What  if  he  didn't  have  the  latest  manners!  She  knew 
the  Pokes  twins  would  snigger  if  he  asked  for  more,  but 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  avoid  his  embarrassment  by 
asking  for  a  second  portion  also,  and  she  had  decided  to 
eat  it  even  though  she  would  burst. 

He  was  to  have  been  her  star  guest.  He  was  to  have 
received  all  her  attention.  She  had  planned  all  these  things 
in  advance.  She  had  not  told  a  single  soul  about  it.  How 
badly  she  felt  after  the  guests  departed?  She  sat  alone  in 
the  drawing  room  almost  ready  to  cry.  Then  she  spied 
the  cat  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  was  grinning  at  her  because 
she  had  been  jilted.  This  was  insult  added  to  injury.  She 
walked  to  the  mantelpiece,  snatched  the  red  rose  from  under 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  39 

his  paw,  and  beat  him  terribly  across  the  head.  The  cat 
jumped  off  to  one  side  and  sent  an  expensive  vase  to  the 
hearth  in  a  thousand  pieces.  The  noise  attracted  Mrs. 
Bennett. 

"Did  Richeheu  do  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  AUaine. 

"Give  me  the  rose ;  I  shall  have  to  spank  him." 

Poor  Richelieu ! 

The  next  morning  Allaine  went  to  school  with  a  "ter- 
rible" headache,  for  she  had  cried  the  whole  night  long — 
at  least  she  thought  it  was  the  whole  night,  but  she  had,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  fallen  asleep  a  few  minutes  after  her 
head  was  on  the  pillow.  She  expected  Paul  to  tell  her  why- 
he  had  stayed  away  from  her  party.  But  Paul  never  men- 
tioned the  party;  he  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Nor  did 
Allaine  dare  to  speak  first.  She  preferred  to  suffer  in 
silence;  she  preferred  to  believe  Paul  had  never  seen  her 
invitation  rather  than  believe  he  had  refused  it.  Paul  knew 
his  spelling  lesson  very  well  that  morning,  but  Allaine  failed 
miserably. 

A  short  while  after  school  was  dismissed  that  afternoon, 
Allaine  walked  down  the  street  with  a  small  box  in  her 
hand.  She  stopped  before  the  widow's  cottage  and  rapped 
gently  on  the  door.    Alice  answered  it. 

"Good  morning — good  afternoon,"  said  Allaine,  imme- 
diately correcting  herself. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  AHce,  smiling  at  the  little  visitor. 

"Please  give  this  to  Paul,"  said  the  child,  holding  out 
the  package.  "I  want  him  to  have  a  taste  of  my  party,  even 
if  he  didn't  come." 

"Shall  I  call  him?"  asked  the  widow. 

"Oh  dear  no,"  answered  Allaine  very  quickly.  "I  am  in 
a  dreadful  hurry." 

Then  she  fluttered  away  like  a  butterfly,  as  AHce  Milton 
was  calling  her  son  from  the  garden. 

"A  little  fairy  has  been  here  and  left  a  present  for  you," 
she  said. 


40  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

Paul  opened  the  box  and  took  out  a  heart-shaped  cake 
covered  with  pink  icing,  on  which  the  name  Allaine  was 
embossed  with  white  sugar.  He  took  a  wee  bite  himself 
and  then  placed  it  to  his  mother's  lips. 

"Taste  how  sweet  it  is,"  he  said. 

The  widow  pretended  to  eat  a  part  of  the  cake. 

"I  shall  get  the  rest  of  it  sometime  again,"  added  the 
boy,  and  he  returned  to  his  work  in  the  garden,  where  he 
was  building  a  little  schoolhouse  on  the  top  of  a  sand  pile. 

Those  words — *'I  shall  get  the  rest  of  it  sometime 
again" — had  a  particular  significance  to  the  widow.  She 
wrote  them  upon  the  lid  of  the  box,  placed  the  cake  inside 
of  it,  and  put  the  package  away  very  carefully. 

On  Monday  morning,  Paul  knew  his  spelling  lesson  very 
well,  but  he  never  once  noticed  Allaine.  Indeed  he  had  for- 
gotten about  the  cake  as  quickly  as  he  had  forgotten  about 
the  invitation.  He  never  even  knew  it  was  the  same  fairy 
who  had  delivered  both  of  them. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Allaine  again  failed  miserably — 
in  her  spelling  lesson. 

Nevertheless  she  continued  to  love  Paul  in  her  simple 
childish  way,  although  she  never  sent  him  a  second  invita- 
tion or  another  cake.  Her  little  heart  was  heavy  because  he 
seemed  to  ignore  her,  but  she  found  some  comfort  in  sitting 
across  the  aisle  from  him.  How  good  he  looked  in  com- 
parison with  the  other  boys ! 

Mrs.  Bennett  knew  nothing  of  the  love  affair  which  was 
"consuming"  her  little  daughter.  Allaine  continued  to  bear 
all  her  "suffering"  in  secrecy.  But  it  soon  had  an  incon- 
cealable  effect.  At  the  end  of  the  year  Paul  was  promoted 
to  the  next  highest  grade ;  Allaine  remained  behind.  What 
a  blow  it  was  to  her!  not  the  fact  that  she  had  failed,  but 
the  fact  that  Paul  would  no  longer  sit  across  the  aisle ! 

"There !"  said  Mrs.  Bennett  sarcastically  to  her  husband. 
"That's  public  school  for  you.  Your  daughter  has  failed 
and  brought  disgrace  upon  her  parents.  The  whole  town 
knows  about  it;  I  have  already  received  a  note  of  consola- 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  41 

tion  from  Mrs.  Samson  Pokes.  Had  she  been  sent  to  a 
private  school  and  received  individual  attention,  this  v^ould 
never  have  happened." 

"You  mean  we  would  never  have  heard  about  it,"  added 
the  husband.  "But  even  if  she  did  fail  in  public  school,  I 
am  willing  to  wager  she  knows  more  than  these  fashion 
plates  who  graduate  with  honors  and  degrees  from  your 
highfalutin  finishing  seminaries.  She  can  beat  you  all 
hollow  in  arithmetic — and  me  too.  It  isn't  the  lack  of  brains 
that  made  her  fail." 

"What  is  it  then  ?    It  isn't  society ;  she  detests  that." 

"Perhaps  she's  in  love,"  suggested  Mr.  Bennett  jestingly. 

"Love!"  shouted  Mrs.  Bennett,  "Why  Mrs.  Harrison 
told  me  that  Peter  refuses  to  attend  another  party,  because 
Allaine  treats  him  so  disdainfully.  She's  an  inhuman  little 
goose  with  a  heart  of  stone." 

And  she  walked  to  the  mantelpiece  and  kissed  Richelieu. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHAT  THE  BIRDS   TAUGHT   HIM 

When  Paul  passed  into  the  next  grade  at  school,  he  soon 
forgot  that  such  a  girl  as  AUaine  Bennett  existed,  for,  as 
the  years  rolled  on,  he  had  found  other  interests,  in  addition 
to  his  studies,  to  occupy  his  time  and  his  thoughts. 

One  day  an  old  gypsy  stopped  before  the  widow's  cot- 
tage and  played  several  melodies  on  his  fiddle.  Paul  sat 
on  the  doorstep,  silent  and  pensive,  for  the  music  charmed 
him  wonderfully. 

"I  wish  I  had  one  of  those,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  when 
the  gypsy  had  departed. 

"Your  father  used  to  play  the  violin,"  said  the  widow. 

"Have  you  still  got  it?"  asked  the  boy  ecstatically. 

"Yes ;  it  is  packed  away  in  the  studio,  but  it  is  not  a  toy, 
Paul,  and  it  is  very  dear  to  me." 

"Well,  I  am  a  big  boy,  Mother.  I  won't  harm  it  or 
break  it.    Do  let  me  have  my  father's  violin." 

Those  words — "my  father's  violin" — made  the  widow 
feel  that  the  instrument  was  no  longer  her  own  but  belonged 
to  the  son  of  the  good  musician. 

"Come,  we  shall  search  for  it,"  she  said. 

Both  of  them  ascended  the  stairs  to  the  little  studio 
under  the  roof,  where  they  found  the  vioHn  well  preserved 
in  its  old-fashioned  case.  To  the  widow  the  tone  of  this 
violin  was  the  voice  of  her  husband.  When  she  opened  the 
case,  she  imagined  she  was  opening  his  casket.  All  the 
strings  were  broken — alas !  that  meant  his  voice  would  never 
be  heard  again. 

"It  needs  new  strings,"  said  the  boy,  taking  hold  of  the 
violin  as  though  he  had  handled  it  for  years. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  43 

"You  must  run  to  the  drug  store  and  buy  a  set,"  sug- 
gested Alice. 

She  gave  him  money,  and  he  returned  with  the  strings. 
He  examined  the  manner  in  which  the  old  ones  were 
attached,  then  removed  them  and  strung  the  instrument 
anew.  He  drew  the  bow.  The  violin  was,  of  course,  not 
properly  tuned,  but  it  had  retained  the  same  resonance  of 
former  years,  and  the  youth  brought  out  of  it  that  won- 
derful  singing  tone,  the  ability  to  produce  which  is  always 
God-given  and  never  acquired.  The  widow  concluded  at 
once  that  the  boy  had  inherited  his  father's  genius. 

*T  wish  the  old  gypsy  would  come  back  again,"  said 
the  boy. 

"Why,  dear?" 

"He  could  teach  me  to  play." 

The  mother  felt  a  certain  anxiety.  She  wanted  the  child 
to  have  instruction,  but  she  could  not  afford  the  lessons.  He 
was  receiving  some  instruction  in  music  at  the  public  school ; 
he  already  knew  about  the  staff,  the  clefs,  the  values  and 
the  names  of  the  notes,  the  sharps,  the  flats,  the  keys  and 
the  scales.  This  knowledge  would  be  a  great  help  to  him, 
but  even  combined  with  this  and  his  own  intuition — remark- 
able as  the  latter  seemed — it  was  not  sufficient.  The  boy 
needed  the  fundamental  knowledge  of  the  instrument  and 
of  the  art  of  playing  it.  He  needed  the  association  with  some 
one  who  had  mastered  that  art,  even  though  the  mastery 
were  more  or  less  mechanical.  It  was,  in  fact,  this  very 
mechanical  basis  that  the  boy  lacked;  artistically  he  could 
take  care  of  himself. 

That  evening,  just  at  dusk,  he  was  sitting  on  the  back 
doorstep,  drawing  the  bow  back  and  forward,  when  he  heard 
the  call  of  a  whip-poor-will  from  a  neighboring  tree.  The 
boy  listened  as  the  call  was  repeated  several  times.  Then 
he  tried  to  imitate  it.  He  moved  his  finger  along  one  of 
the  strings  until  he  located  the  three  notes  which  character- 
ize the  cry  of  that  songster.  The  bird  seemed  to  under- 
stand he  was  trying  to  imitate  it,  and  flew  into  the  garden, 
perching  on  a  lilac  bush,  that  the  boy  might  hear  the  call 


44  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

more  distinctly.  After  considerable  practice,  in  which  both 
bird  and  boy  displayed  great  patience,  Paul  reproduced 
the  call  of  the  whip-poor-will  perfectly,  and  they  continued 
to  answer  each  other  until  finally  the  bird,  seemingly  sat- 
isfied with  the  progress  of  its  pupil,  flew  away  and  disap- 
peared among  the  leaves  to  await  the  dawn. 

A  few  days  later  the  old  gypsy  passed  through  the  town 
again,  and  Paul  called  him  in  to  show  his  father's  violin. 
The  widow  had  heard  it  rumored  that  gypsies  stole  things, 
and  she  felt  rather  uneasy  seeing  the  man  examine  her 
husband's  great  treasure. 

'Tt's  a  very  old  instrument,"  remarked  the  fiddler. 

"How  can  you  tell?"  asked  the  boy,  ever  eager  to  learn. 

"You  have  placed  the  strings  on  it  in  the  order  AGE  D," 
was  the  reply. 

The  widow  and  her  son  both  smiled.  So  did  the  gypsy, 
and  the  mother  believed  she  saw  nothing  but  good  in  his 
dear  old  face. 

"Would  you  mind  stringing  it  correctly  and  giving  him 
a  lesson  or  two  ?"  asked  the  widow. 

"I  will  be  glad  to  do  that,"  answered  the  kind  old 
wanderer. 

He  also  drew  a  staff  on  a  sheet  of  paper  and  showed 
Paul  the  position  of  the  four  notes  to  which  the  strings 
responded.  Then  he  tuned  them  accordingly,  and  produced 
that  familiar  blending  of  fifths,  which  Paul  always  remem- 
bered. He  taught  him  how  to  play  and  finger  the  scales. 
Paul  practiced  them  for  several  hours  each  day,  and,  when 
the  old  gypsy  returned  to  give  a  second  lesson,  the  boy 
could  play  them  remarkably  well. 

Yes,  the  old  gypsy  returned  regularly  twice  a  week,  and 
all  he  asked  in  remuneration  for  his  teaching  was  "a  bite 
to  eat".  The  widow  was  only  too  glad  to  have  the  old  man 
sit  down  at  table  with  her  and  Paul.  He  entertained  them 
with  stories  of  his  travels,  telling  them  how  children, 
charmed  by  his  music,  would  sometimes  march  after  him 
through  the  streets.  He  was  in  fact  a  Pied  Fiddler,  who 
loved  little  ones  as  much  as  he  loved  his  fiddle.    Alice  soon 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  45 

lost  the  notion  that  he  might  be  a  thief.  She  discovered  that 
he  was  a  good  man,  trying  to  earn  an  honest  Hving  by  amus- 
ing the  townsfolk  with  his  music.  And  the  old  minstrel 
also  learned  that  AHce  was  a  kind  woman,  who  paid  amply 
for  the  small  service  he  rendered  her  son.  Had  the  mayor 
of  Hamelin  shown  the  Pied  Piper  the  same  respect  with 
which  the  widow  treated  the  gypsy,  the  Piper  would  not 
have  robbed  the  town  of  its  children  but  would  have  con- 
tinued happily  on  his  way.  Men  are  not  born  thieves ;  they 
are  made  thieves  and  criminals  by  the  ill  treatment  and  the 
insult  we  fling  in  their  faces. 

It  was  not  long  until  Paul  was  playing  with  a  marvelous 
technique.  He  had  discovered  a  chestful  of  music  in  the 
studio — music  which  Samuel  Milton  had  used  when 
instructing  his  pupils.  He  also  found  a  notebook,  showing 
in  what  order  the  various  selections  should  be  taken  up  by 
the  student;  and  in  this  notebook  were  recorded  many 
experiences  in  teaching,  together  with  numerous  sugges- 
tions for  young  violinists.  Paul  studied  the  book  carefully. 
It  seemed  the  father  had  prepared  it  purposely  for  the  son. 

So  the  father  himself  really  became  the  boy's  teacher, 
and  under  his  guidance  the  pupil  soon  surpassed  his  old 
master — the  gypsy.  The  gypsy  honestly  admitted  that  it 
was  no  longer  necessary  to  call  at  the  cottage.  He  departed 
one  evening  for  the  last  time,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes 
when  he  thanked  the  widow  for  all  the  kindness  she  had 
shown  him.  That  night  she  had  prepared  a  basketful  of 
food  in  addition  to  his  meal,  and  he  disappeared  under  the 
shadow  of  the  village  trees  just  as  Paul's  first  teacher,  the 
whip-poor-will,  had  done,  after  the  boy  had  mastered  what 
little  the  bird  was  able  to  teach  him. 

Later,  Paul  began  to  play  the  less  difficult  selections  his 
father  had  played  in  concert,  and  one  afternoon,  while  the 
rain  was  falling  over  the  little  garden,  he  sat  at  the  studio 
window,  playing  that  very  love  song  which  the  father  had 
played  to  Alice  Milton  at  the  musicale  where  she  had  first 
met  him — the  love  song  which  seemed  to  join  their  souls. 
The  widow  stopped  her  work  and  cried  for  joy.    How  good 


46  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

God  was  to  send  this  sweet  reminiscence  of  her  husband! 
She  believed  the  husband  himself  had  returned  to  his  studio 
under  the  roof  and  was  again  serenading  her  as  he  had  done 
of  yore.  She  ascended  the  steps  noiselessly  and  watched  her 
little  genius  as  he  dreamed  and  mused.  Once  his  eyes 
turned  to  the  shadowy  corner  where  she  stood  concealed. 
Ke  seemed  to  gaze  directly  into  her  own  deep  blue  eyes, 
and  yet  he  was  unaware  of  her  presence.  His  were  the 
same,  large,  dark  eyes  of  the  father,  and  over  them  hung 
that  same  rich,  curly,  brown  hair.  Samuel  Milton  had 
indeed  come  to  life  again,  and  his  music — his  voice — awak- 
ened in  the  heart  of  the  widow  the  old  love  which  had  been 
replaced  by  the  maternal  devotion  to  her  offspring.  But 
that  love  had  changed;  it  had  grown  purer  as  it  slumbered 
in  her  bosom.  It  was  a  spiritual  love — the  love  of  the  soul, 
which  eventually  forsakes  the  love  of  the  body  and  towers 
infinitely  above  it,  like  the  flower  which  is  as  yet  unfolded 
in  the  seed  embedded  by  the  warm  earth,  but  which  later 
rises  into  the  pure  sunlight  and  turns  its  ethereal  face  to 
the  skies  alone. 

The  music  ceased,  and  the  widow  descended  the  stairs. 
The  stairs  creaked,  but  Paul  mistook  the  noise  for  the  pat- 
tering of  the  rain  on  the  roof.  He  was  unaware  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  had  a  listener.  Ah !  more  than  one  listener ;  for 
a  girl,  who  was  passing  on  the  street,  had  also  stopped  under 
the  studio  window  to  hear  the  sweet  strains  which  came 
floating  from  it. 

Between  his  school  studies  and  his  music,  Paul  had  little 
time  for  anything  else.  The  widow  never  disturbed  him, 
or  in  any  way  detracted  him  from  his  work.  He  had  now 
entered  High  School  and  was  approaching  manhood.  He 
had  formed  no  intimate  friends.  His  mother  was  the  only 
one  in  whom  he  confided.  It  was  before  her  that  he  brought 
all  matters,  all  questions,  all  inquiries.  But  such  inquiries 
were  few,  for  Paul  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  world  in 
which  he  lived,  and  he  gave  all  his  time  to  his  books  and 
his  art. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  47 

Such  are  the  ways  of  genius,  and  the  more  ordinary  man 
does  not  interfere  with  them.  The  man  of  the  world  per- 
mits the  man  of  soHtude  to  Hve  undisturbed  in  his  quiet 
dreamy  fashion.  But  it  is  not  the  will  of  God  that  man 
should  live  entirely  after  this  manner,  and  from  time  to 
time  God  speaks  to  the  solitary  one  through  Nature  and 
shows  him  that  love  and  companionship  with  his  fellow- 
creatures  are  needed  to  make  him  happier  and  to  reward 
his  work. 

One  morning  Paul  and  the  widow  were  in  the  little  gar- 
den. He  was  lying  on  the  grass  gazing  among  the  branches 
over  his  head.  The  mother  sat  on  a  rustic  bench,  mending 
stockings.  It  was  early  springtime.  The  leaf-buds  were  just 
beginning  to  open  on  the  fruit  trees,  and  the  birds  were  gath- 
ering straws  and  grass  for  the  construction  of  their  nests. 

Paul's  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  pair  of  birds  above  him. 
The  birds  were  mates ;  their  nest  was  near  by.  The  mother 
bird  was  perched  on  a  swinging  bough,  her  graceful  little 
form  quivering  happily  each  time  the  male  brushed  by  her, 
as  he  danced  and  hopped  restlessly  from  twig  to  twig  or 
described  graceful  curves  in  the  air.  From  time  to  time 
he  would  alight  gently  on  her  warm  downy  back  and 
embrace  her  tenderly  and  lovingly  with  his  fluttering  wings. 
Then  after  darting  away — not  too  far — with  peculiar  joy, 
he  would  run  his  bill  through  his  ruffled  plumage,  to  appear 
neat  and  clean  to  his  little  mate,  who  chirped  merrily  for 
his  return,  and  upon  whom  he  always  directed  one  eye  in 
his  prettily  tilted  head  that  he  might  follow  her  in  case 
she  took  flight. 

"What  are  those  birds  doing.  Mother?"  asked  the  son. 

"Which  birds?" 

"Those  up  yonder  in  the  tree." 

The  widow  glanced  up  and  saw  the  birds  when  they 
seemed  so  happily  united. 

"There!  see  them  now,"  said  Paul.  "What  are  they 
doing?" 

The  widow  knew  that  the  boy's  curiosity  had  been 
aroused.    He  was  still  innocent ;  he  had  not  yet  learned  the 


48  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

secret  by  which  Nature  reproduces  her  kinds.  He  was  now 
old  enough  to  be  informed.  His  father  was  not  there  to 
enlighten  him.  It  rested  with  the  widow  to  tell  her  boy 
the  whole  truth,  and  to  tell  it  plainly.  She  would  neither 
invent  a  fairy  tale  to  keep  him  in  ignorance  nor  would  she 
postpone  telling  him  that  truth  openly.  The  time  had  come 
when  he  must  know  all,  for  God  so  willed  it  by  showing 
him  the  birds.  Were  she  to  refrain  from  enlightening  him, 
he  might  learn  the  secret  elsewhere  and  learn  it  in  a  wrong 
sense,  which  might  mislead  him,  injure  him,  and  disgrace 
both  of  them. 

"What  are  the  birds  doing?"  he  continued  to  ask. 

"My  dear,  they  are  loving  each  other." 

"They  seem  so  happy,"  said  Paul. 

"They  are  very  happy,  dear — just  as  happy  as  your 
father  and  I  were  when  we  loved  each  other  in  the 
same  way." 

"Are  there  father  and  mother  birds  ?" 

"Yes,  and  they  will  soon  be  the  happy  parents  of  a  little 
baby  bird — just  as  your  father  and  mother  were  the  happy 
parents  of  their  little  Paul." 

"The  birds  look  alike;  what  is  the  difference  between 
them?" 

"Just  the  difference  there  is  between  you  and  me,  or 
between  any  boy  and  girl." 

"What  is  the  real  difference  between  boys  and  girls  ?" 

"All  things  in  Nature  are  reproduced  by  the  union  of 
the  male  and  female  elements,"  began  the  widow.  "Take  a 
flower  for  example." 

She  culled  a  purple  morning-glory  from  the  vine,  which 
was  climbing  up  the  strings  on  the  fence.  She  removed  the 
beautiful  purple  corolla  that  he  might  see  the  pistil  very 
distinctly. 

"This  is  the  female  organ,"  she  said.  "Before  it  is  full 
grown,  it  represents  that  of  the  girl;  after  it  matures,  it 
represents  that  of  the  woman." 

Then  she  removed  one  of  the  stamens,  which  were 
attached  to  the  inside  of  the  corolla. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  49 

"This  is  the  male  organ.  Before  it  matures,  it  repre- 
sents that  of  the  boy;  after  it  matures,  it  represents  that 
of  the  man." 

The  boy  Hstened  attentively,  watched  closely,  and  seemed 
to  understand  his  mother  without  asking  further  questions. 
She  rubbed  the  head  of  the  stamen  between  her  fingers,  and 
then  showed  him  the  pollen  which  adhered  to  them. 

"This  dust  is  produced  by  the  mature  male  organ  and 
is  carried,  sometimes  by  the  bees  and  sometimes  by  the 
wind,  to  the  female  organ,  where  it  descends  until  it  reaches 
the  seeds.  Then  the  seeds  are  said  to  be  fertilized — ^that  is, 
endowed  with  life;  and,  when  planted,  they  give  rise  to 
new  morning-glory  vines. 

"Now  let  us  return  to  the  birds.  In  the  male  bird,  there 
is  an  organ  corresponding  to  this  male  organ  in  the  flower. 
In  the  female  bird, — the  mother  bird, — there  is  an  organ 
corresponding  to  this  female  organ  in  the  flower.  The 
mature  male  organ  is  capable  of  secreting  a  fluid,  which 
corresponds  to  this  dust  in  the  flower;  and  the  mature 
female  organ  produces  eggs,  which  correspond  to  the  seeds 
of  the  flower.  In  the  springtime  each  male  bird  selects  his 
mate,  and  when  the  two  birds  embrace,  as  you  saw  them  in 
the  tree,  the  fluid  passes  from  the  male  into  the  female 
and  fertilizes  the  eggs.  Then  the  baby  birds  are  hatched 
from  the  eggs. 

"Man  can  learn  much  from  the  birds.  They,  of  all  God's 
creatures,  seem  nearest  to  Him.  They  soar  in  the  sky, 
where  the  air  is  purest  and  where  the  sunshine  is  brightest. 
God's  message  is  always  truest  when  received  in  the  cleanest 
places.  While  the  birds  are  singing  so  beautifully  among 
the  trees  tops,  they  are  promising  God  they  will  do  what 
He  is  asking  of  them.  He  is  telling  each  male  bird  to  select 
a  female  bird  and  keep  her  as  his  sole  companion,  love  her 
dearly  and  tenderly,  and  by  so  doing,  bring  more  baby  birds 
into  the  world.  And  God  is  telling  man  the  same  thing, 
although  man  does  not  always  heed  Him  as  the  birds  do; 
man  does  not  seem  to  hear  God's  voice  so  clearly  as  they 
do,  because  man  does  not  always  wish  to  hear  it.     Man 


50  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

sometimes  ignores  God,  although  he  must  always  suffer 
for  doing  it.  But  the  purer  the  life  of  man  becomes,  the 
nearer  man  comes  to  God,  and  then  he  hears  the  same 
message  which  God  sends  to  the  birds.  Like  the  bird,  he 
selects  a  mate,  a  wife,  and  although  he  continues  to  love 
all  mankind,  yet  this  particular  relation,  which  you  saw 
between  the  two  birds,  brings  him  closer  to  his  wife  than 
to  any  other  woman  and  confirms  their  marriage.  It  is  a 
relation  which  neither  of  them  should  have  experienced  with 
other  men  or  women  before  their  marriage,  nor  which  they 
should  experience  with  other  men  or  women  after  their 
marriage.  It  is  this  relation  which  sacredly  unites  and  weds 
their  bodies  just  as  God  unites  and  weds  their  souls.  It 
is  against  God's  will  that  unwedded  persons  should  thus 
unite,  for  those  who  so  abuse  this  power  of  reproduction 
become  wretched  and  diseased,  and  their  children  enter  the 
world  unhappy  and  imperfect." 

"But  why  should  men  and  women  wish  to  abuse  this 
power?"  asked  Paul,  innocently. 

"You  saw  how  happy  the  birds  were.  Man  and  woman 
are  just  as  happy  when  they  are  so  united.  The  union  of 
the  male  and  the  female  is  accompanied  by  pleasing  sensa- 
tions— perhaps  the  greatest  joy  known  to  material  man;  it 
is  for  this  reason  that  it  so  degrades  him  when  he  abuses 
it.  Men  and  women  marry  for  another  reason  aside  from 
the  love  of  children.  In  the  case  of  man,  the  union  of  the 
sexes  has  another  purpose,  which  the  birds  do  not  seem 
to  require ;  it  is  that  of  pleasure  and  relaxation.  The  bird's 
life  is  restful;  the  Hfe  of  man  is  one  of  conflict.  Man  must 
struggle  for  his  existence;  he  must  work,  study,  learn  and 
accomplish  great  things.  God  has  sent  man  to  earth  to  help 
Him  in  His  great  tasks,  for  which  God  offers  him  this 
reward.  The  man  who  has  employed  his  mental  or  physical 
powers  to  accomplish  good  work  deserves  this  reward.  The 
reward  is  not  only  a  wife  and  a  happy  family  of  chil- 
dren but  also  the  continuation  of  that  pleasure  by  which 
the  children  were  created.  God  has  planted  the  desire 
for  this  pleasure  in  all  men.     It  is  an  inborn  desire;  not 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  51 

an  acquired  one.  As  long  as  man  remains  good  and  as  long 
as  he  labors,  this  desire  sleeps;  but  after  the  good  work  is 
accomplished,  the  desire  awakens  and  should  be  purely 
gratified. 

"Thus  it  was,  Paul,  that  I  could  reward  your  father  at 
the  close  of  those  days  when  he  labored  so  diligently  with 
his  pupils  and  his  art.  Thus  it  was  that  I  offered  him  my 
body,  and  we  repeated  the  mutual  pleasure  which  brought 
you  into  the  world,  and  the  purity  of  which  has  blessed  you 
with  a  clean  birth.  Your  happiness  and  our  happiness 
proves  that  God  does  not  deny  this  pleasure  to  the  good 
man  and  his  wife.  He  denies  it  only  to  the  man  who  in- 
dulges before  he  has  earned  a  true  and  loving  wife — for  in 
that  case,  the  pleasure  results  in  disease.  The  noblest  thing 
I  can  tell  you  about  your  father  is  the  fact  that  your  mother 
was  the  first  and  only  woman  with  whom  he  shared  the 
pleasure  of  sexual  love. 

"And  now,  Paul,  I  have  told  you  all.  Remember  that 
God  has  this  pleasure  in  store  for  you  also.  Do  not  abuse 
it,  my  boy.  Think  of  your  mother,  your  future  wife,  your 
dear  children  and  yourself.  Do  not  bring  disgrace,  suffering 
and  disease  into  the  world.  This  desire  will  sooner  or  later 
awaken  in  you,  but  learn  to  work  hard  and  master  it  until 
you  have  accomplished  some  good  work.  Let  it  be  the 
spring  which  presses  you  onward  to  some  great  task,  the 
attainment  of  which  will  justify  the  gratification  and  entitle 
you  to  a  loving  wife  and  children  and  the  same  joy  which 
was  cherished  by  your  own  parents." 

The  widow  had  finished  her  sermon.  The  son  stood 
before  her  on  his  knees.    It  was  a  lesson  he  never  forgot. 

"And  now  since  father  is  dead,  you  are  deprived  of  that 
pleasure,"  said  Paul,  with  a  wavering  tone  of  pity  in  his 
voice  and  an  expression  of  deep  compassion  in  his  large 
dark  eyes. 

"Yes,  dear,"  responded  the  sweet  widow,  "but  it  has 
been  replaced  by  a  higher  pleasure — a  truer  happiness — a 
purer  and  more  spiritual  love — the  love  for  my  boy — my 
dear  darling  boy." 


52  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

And  she  took  his  clean,  upright  face  between  her  soft, 
white  hands,  and  kissed  his  spotless  forehead. 

The  widow  had  not  overlooked  the  one  great  duty  in 
the  education  of  her  son — an  open  discussion  of  sexual 
intercourse  and  its  proper  uses.  It  is  that  part  of  education 
which  neither  school  nor  college  can  teach  aright — the  knowl- 
edge which  only  a  father  or  a  mother  can  successfully  impart 
— the  knowledge  which  should  and  must  be  transmitted  to  us 
through  the  parents  from  whom  we  have  sprung. 

If  the  mothers  and  fathers  of  the  past  had  known  and 
imparted  this  to  their  children  in  the  same  way,  the  world 
would  be  much  better  and  purer  today.  Most  fathers  and 
mothers  do  not  merit  the  name  of  parents,  because  they  dare 
not  breathe  such  matters  before  their  children.  They  prefer 
to  let  their  children  discover  these  things  for  themselves, 
with  the  result  that  they  learn  of  them  from  and  practice 
them  with  persons  who  abuse  the  legitimate  pleasures  of 
wedlock,  consequently  exposing  their  sons  to  temptation 
and  ruin. 

There  should  be  no  shame  connected  with  the  pleasure 
in  which  man  and  wife  indulge  behind  the  closed  door  of 
the  nuptial  chamber.  There  is  no  reason  why  this  moral 
conduct  of  the  parents  should  be  kept  a  secret  to  their 
grown-up  children.  The  world  must  awaken;  the  world 
is  topsy-turvy.  We  refuse  to  mention  sexual  intercourse 
in  its  purified  and  legitimate  form,  but  the  intercourse  which 
is  illicit  and  commerciaHzed  we  advertise  with  red  ink  in 
our  newspapers  and  drag  out  on  the  boards  of  our  theatres. 
It  is  with  intercourse  in  its  depraved  form  that  we  prefer 
first  to  acquaint  our  children.  It  is  of  the  intercourse  which 
is  a  deadly  vice,  and  not  of  the  intercourse  which  approaches 
a  virtue,  that  the  world  speaks  unblushingly  before  the 
children  of  the  next  generation — before  the  children  who 
become  the  unfortunate  and  debased  men  and  women  of 
the  future. 

As  long  as  you  are  going  to  keep  your  own  moral  con- 
duct a  secret  to  your  son,  he  will  most  assuredly  keep  his 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  53 

immoral  conduct  a  secret  to  you.  As  long  as  you  fail  in 
your  courage  to  talk  before  him  about  the  decent,  helpful 
and  necessary  pleasures  which  you  share  with  your  loyal 
wife  and  his  sweet  mother,  how  can  you  expect  him  to 
mention  before  you  his  indecent,  unhealthful  and  unessential 
relations  with  the  women  of  the  street !  How  many  boys, 
who  are  slowly  being  poisoned  by  harlots,  remain  mute  in 
the  presence  of  their  parents,  because  their  parents  have 
never  approached  the  subject  of  sexual  intercourse  before 
them!  And  think  how  many  a  boy  might  have  been  saved 
had  he  received  a  word  of  warning  from  his  father  or 
mother  before  he  received  the  initiation  from  his  first 
temptress ! 

As  soon  as  a  boy  reaches  the  age  when  he  becomes 
curious,  these  things  should  be  the  foremost  topic  of  con- 
versation between  him  and  his  father,  and  it  is  the  father 
and  not  the  son  who  should  encourage  this  conversation. 
I  believe  immoral  fathers  are  far  more  willing  to  start 
their  sons  on  crooked  paths  than  moral  fathers  are  willing 
to  start  their  sons  on  straight  ones.  How  timid  we  are  about 
mentioning  our  rectitude!  Is  rectitude  a  thing  to  be 
ashamed  of?  Take  hold  of  your  son,  bashful  father  and 
mother,  and  explain  to  him  the  act  which  brought  him  into 
the  world.  Begin  if  you  wish — as  did  Alice  Milton — by 
speaking  of  the  flowers  and  the  birds,  but  conclude  your 
discussion  by  referring  to  your  own  personal  relation  with 
the  good  woman  whom  God  gave  you  as  wife  and  him  as 
mother.  It  is  nothing  but  secrecy  which  makes  this  rela- 
tion seem  shameful  to  you  and  to  him.  Tell  him  all  openly, 
and  he  will  respect  and  love  you ;  and  that  respect  and  love 
will  do  much  to  guard  him  from  the  illegitimate  and  immoral 
conduct  which  may  lead  to  the  disrespect  for  his  own  wife, 
the  imperfection  of  his  children,  and  the  ruination  of  the 
peace  and  of  the  happiness  of  his  home. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    FLEDGELING    IS    CALLED    AWAY    FROM    THE    NEST 

Paul  Milton  completed  his  course  at  High  School  with 
honors  and  was  presented  with  a  free  scholarship  for  the 
continuation  of  his  studies  at  the  university.  The  scholar- 
ship was  said  to  have  come  from  the  alumni  who  resided 
in  Nor  ford,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  personal  gift 
from  Mr.  Bennett,  although  few  persons  knew  it. 

AUaine  by  this  time  had  grown  to  be  a  beautiful  young 
woman.  She  was  slender,  graceful  and  sensible.  She  had 
inherited  all  the  beauty  of  form  and  color  which  had  at- 
tracted Mr.  Bennett  to  her  mother,  but,  in  addition  to  these, 
she  had  acquired  mental  qualities  which  were  far  in  advance 
of  those  of  his  wife,  and  which  revealed  personality  and 
character,  giving  strength  and  permanence  to  the  opales- 
cent and  seemingly  fragile  shell  which  encased  them. 

Her  observations  on  persons  and  things  were  not  super- 
ficial. She  studied  them  thoroughly  trying  to  discover  their 
true  nature  and  purpose.  Her  mother's  social  interests 
had  never  appealed  to  her  very  strongly,  and  now  they 
seemed  more  shallow,  more  ostentatious  and  sillier  than 
ever.  It  was  toward  her  father  that  she  had  a  natural 
inclination,  because  he  had  rescued  Allaine  from  the  freaks 
and  frivolities  in  which  the  mother  had  planned  to  feature 
her.  Mr.  Bennett  adored  and  worshiped  her.  Each  day 
seemed  to  bring  them  closer.  She  became  a  true  helpmate, 
and  shared  his  interest  in  the  enlightenment  of  the  poverty- 
stricken  inhabitants  of  Norford. 

It  was  not  the  distribution  of  wealth  that  occupied  Mr. 
Wallace  Bennett's  time  and  mind;  it  was  the  distribution 
of  knowledge.    In  fact  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  55 

knowledge  was  the  only  true  wealth,  and  that  those  who 
had  acquired  it  were  far  richer  than  those  whose  first  and 
only  treasure  was  gold.  Money,  to  his  mind,  became  val- 
uable only  when  used  for  intellectual  and  common-sense 
purposes.  Material  possessions,  beyond  those  essential  for 
comfortable  existence,  were  mere  luxuries  which  dwarfed 
the  development  of  the  mind — the  opportunity  which  God 
gave  man  in  order  that  he  might  be  superior  to  the  beast. 
The  flabby-minded  well-to-do,  who  decorated  their  fifty- 
chambered  mansions  with  imported  bric-a-brac  and  tapes- 
tries, who  decorated  their  bodies  with  gaudy  satins  and 
expensive  laces,  and  who  ate  a  ten-course  meal  three  or  four 
times  a  day,  were,  to  him,  objects  of  pity.  What  good  was 
all  their  wealth  if  they  hadn't  enough  brains  to  know  how 
to  spend  it!  He  considered  them  just  as  unfortunate  as 
those  who  had  no  money  whatever.  Since  money  alone  had 
made  the  rich  neither  wiser  nor  better,  it  would  likewise 
fail  to  improve  the  poor.  Both  classes  were  hungry  and 
miserable,  because  they  knew  nothing ;  the  poor  were  hungry 
for  food ;  the  rich  were  hungry  for  contentment.  Money 
and  food  might  bring  temporary  relief  to  the  poor  just  as 
it  had  to  the  rich,  but  education  was  needed  to  do  permanent 
good  for  both  classes. 

Allaine  was  not  so  brilliant  as  Paul  Milton,  but  had  it 
not  been  for  the  influence  which  his  presence  exerted  over 
her  childish  emotions  (for  children  have  emotions)  when 
he  sat  opposite  her  in  the  classroom — had  it  not  been  for 
this,  she  might  have  graduated  with  his  class,  although  per- 
haps not  with  honors. 

She  had  indeed  lost  a  whole  year  of  school  on  that 
account,  but  she  decided  it  was  better  so;  for  although  she 
still  loved  Paul  secretly,  nevertheless  the  love  had  grown 
more  noble  and  womanly.  It  was  not  the  giddy  affection 
of  a  silly  school  girl ;  it  was  a  love  to  help  him  along  with 
his  life's  work,  not  a  love  to  hinder  him  by  selfishly  attract- 
ing his  attention  with  invitations  to  parties  and  with  heart- 
shaped  cakes  bearing  her  own  name.  She  was  very  glad 
they  were  no  longer  in  the  same  class  and  room  at  school, 


56  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

lest  her  constant  presence  reveal  the  mature  sentiment. 
True,  he  had  ignored  her  when  he  was  still  a  child ;  but  he 
was  now  approaching  manhood,  and  it  was  not  improbable 
that,  were  he  to  discover  the  deep  interest  and  yearning  hid- 
den in  the  heart  of  this  beautiful  and  sensible  girl,  it  might 
awaken  a  passion  which  would  stand  in  the  way  of  his 
ambition  and  check  the  career  which  God  had  offered  him. 
This  would  have  broken  the  girl's  heart  completely.  She 
was  willing  to  suffer  being  separated  from  him,  but  she 
refused  to  perish  simultaneously  with  his  career.  She 
longed  to  see  him  big  and  great.  She  wanted  to  help  him 
accomplish  something  worth  while — perhaps  a  great  reform. 
Toward  that  end  she  would  also  devote  her  life  assisting 
him  in  every  way  she  could.  But  her  assistance,  like  her 
love,  must  be  a  secret  to  him.  It  must  be  impersonal.  He 
must  not  know  how  she  was  using  her  influence  to  place 
opportunities  in  his  path  and  to  spur  him  on  to  great  deeds. 

It  was  indeed  through  Allaine  that  Mr.  Wallace  Bennett, 
representing  "The  Alumni,"  had  presented  Paul  Milton 
with  the  free  scholarship. 

"You  are  interested  in  the  education  of  the  poor,  aren't 
you  ?"  asked  Allaine  Bennett  of  her  father  one  day,  as  the) 
sat  in  the  library  while  Mrs.  Bennett  was  out  calling  on 
Mrs.  Samson  Pokes. 

"Yes;"  answered  the  father,  that  afternoon,  "I  am 
deeply  interested  in  the  education  of  the  poor — far  more 
than  in  the  education  of  the  rich.  The  rich  do  not  wish  to 
be  educated.  They  like  to  display  their  ignorance  and  lack 
of  judgment.  The  rich  need  reform,  and  it  is  only  through 
the  poor  that  the  reform  will  come  about,  providing  we  give 
the  poor  the  opportunity.  When  I  attended  the  university, 
Allaine,  I  considered  it  a  waste  of  time  to  be  interested  in 
books.  I  could  see  no  object  in  solving  problems,  perform- 
ing experiments,  writing  themes,  translating  foreign  litera- 
ture and  reading  Shakespeare  and  Tennyson.  What  good 
were  such  things  to  me  when  I  was  receiving  my  monthly 
allowance  from  home,  which  enabled  me  to  entertain  my 
friends  royally  at  the  theatres  and  the  taverns?     I  knew 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  57 

my  parents  were  wealthy,  I  knew  they  had  far  more  than 
they  needed  for  themselves.  I  saw  that  my  future  was 
provided  for,  so  why  should  I  work  over  books  when  I 
was  offered  a  life  of  everlasting  pleasure?  Furthermore, 
my  father  himself  told  me  to  enjoy  life  while  it  lasted — ^to 
take  things  easy ;  and,  thrown,  as  I  was,  among  epicureans, 
it  was  only  natural  that  I  should  join  them  in  their  frolics 
and  deride  learning  and  intellect. 

"I  shudder  now  when  I  recall  some  of  the  things  we  did. 
Were  I  to  tell  you,  Allaine,  I  fear  you  would  not  care  to 
call  me  your  father.  I  often  look  at  you  and  wonder  why 
God  blessed  me  with  so  sweet  a  daughter  instead  of  pun- 
ishing me  for  the  lawless  manner  in  which  I  abused  His 
sacred  power.  I  marvel  that  His  verdict  has  not  been 
scrawled  across  your  fair  forehead  to  remind  me  constantly 
of  the  sins  of  my  youth.  A  child  of  one  of  my  classmates 
was  born  blind  and  covered  with  festering  sores.  Great 
God,  Allaine!  think  if  this  suffering  had  been  inflicted 
upon  you." 

Mr.  Bennett  fell  back  in  his  chair,  covering  his  eyes 
as  though  horror-stricken.  It  seemed  he  could  not  bear 
to  gaze  upon  and  feared  to  touch,  at  that  moment,  the  clear 
face,  of  his  daughter,  which  was  crowned  with  a  halo  of 
bright  golden  hair.  But  Allaine  drew  his  hands  away  and 
looked  with  pity  and  forgiveness  into  the  eyes  which  they 
had  hidden  from  her. 

"God  is  good,"  she  said  softly.  "God  forgives.  Per- 
haps it  was  He  who  sent  you  among  these  men  that  you 
might  learn  their  need  of  reform.  Perhaps  He  protected 
your  body  and  mind  that  you  might  live  to  inspire  other  men 
to  reform  their  unfortunate  brothers." 

"But  why  did  he  allow  me  to  be  dragged  through  the 
mire?"  repHed  the  father.  "I  could  have  known  without 
practicing  it.  Had  I  been  strong,  I  would  have  tried  to 
save  the  boys  who  were  tempting  me,  instead  of  allowing 
them  to  draw  me  under.  Oh,  I  was  weak.  And  why  was 
I  weak?  Because  I  was  ignorant.  I  refused  to  learn;  I 
refused  to  use  my  brain  and  my  reason.    I  tossed  my  books 


58  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

to  the  wind,  and  with  them  all  my  golden  opportunities. 
The  real  purpose  of  education  had  escaped  me.  These  prob- 
lems, these  experiments,  these  themes,  these  books — per- 
haps they  do  not  offer  direct  benefits,  but  youth  does  not  see 
far  enough.  He  does  not  perceive  how  they  all  benefit  him 
indirectly.  He  does  not  realize  that  these  things  keep  his 
mind  occupied  and  cleared  of  depraved  thoughts,  which  re- 
sult in  ruinous  action.  Nor  does  he  realize  that  they  sharpen 
his  mind  as  a  tool,  enabling  it  to  probe  more  deeply  into 
other  matters  and  to  solve  other  problems  in  later  Hfe, 
which  have  no  apparent  relation  to  the  problems  of  his 
school  days.  The  grindstone  sharpens  the  scythe,  but  it  is 
not  the  grindstone  that  destroys  the  weed  and  exterminates 
the  poison ;  it  is  the  keenness  of  the  scythe." 

Allaine  was  much  pleased  with  the  metaphor,  for  she 
had  often  heard  her  schoolmates  mockingly  refer  to  Paul 
Milton  as  a  grind. 

"The  scholar  is  the  only  real  product — the  only  useful 
product  of  a  university,"  continued  Mr.  Bennett.  "Pleas- 
ure and  friends  are  necessary  perhaps  if  they  are  clean,  but 
they  should  always  be  secondary — very  much  secondary. 
If  scholarship  is  not  the  first — decidedly  the  first  interest  of 
a  college  man,  he  will  be  of  little  real  use  to  the  world ;  per- 
haps he  will  bring  only  disgrace. 

"We  often  hear  of  degenerates  who  have  reformed  or 
think  they  have  reformed,  and  who  tour  the  country  to 
bellow  in  public  places,  where  they  create  sensational  but 
momentary  commotions  with  their  vivid  and  vulgar  elo- 
quence— if  we  may  call  it  that.  But  in  their  discourses, 
there  is  much  to  repel  us.  They  do  of  course  amuse  the 
vulgar  masses  but  seldom  inspire  them.  In  these  reform- 
ers, there  is  nothing  of  the  true  scholar,  whose  eloquence  is 
not  the  delirious  after-effects  of  the  debauchery  which  has 
swamped  his  mind  and  body,  but  the  God-given  reward  for 
his  studious  and  abstemious  life. 

'T  have  tried  hard  to  forget  the  wild  pleasures  of  my 
youth.  I  have  again  returned  to  my  books,  but  alas!  I 
am  no  longer  surrounded  by  the  men  whom  I  long  to  re- 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  59 

form,  and  I  have  lost  the  youth  which  alone  can  inspire 
youth  to  clean  living.  But  I  trust  I  can  find  some  lad  as 
yet  untainted,  whom  I  might  send,  as  I  would  a  son  of  my 
own,  to  reform  my  university — a  boy  who  feels  that  he 
must  work  for  his  own  future  and  for  the  future  of  others — 
not  a  mere  cipher  who  squanders  his  own  time  and  his  par- 
ent's wealth  on  pleasures  which  result  in  ruin  and  misery 
for  himself  and  others.  I  must  find  such  a  boy,  AUaine.  I 
owe  this  favor  to  God,  because  God  has  sent  you,  pure  and 
clean,  to  comfort  me  after  all  I  have  done  against  His  will. 
Perhaps  He  has  sent  you — you  who  still  love  your  father 
in  spite  of  all  I  have  told  you — perhaps  He  has  sent  you 
to  help  me  find  such  a  boy." 

"Father!  Father!"  cried  the  girl,  "you  have  made  me 
so  happy."  She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "I  am 
so  glad  you  sent  me  to  the  public  school.  Had  I  been  clos- 
eted with  a  governess,  I  would  have  seen  nothing.  But  now 
I  know  what  life  really  means,  and  I  have  also  found  a 
promising  boy  for  the  tasR  you  wish  him  to  perform.  He 
is  a  poor  boy,  who  has  ignored  pleasure  for  work — a  boy 
whose  only  pleasure  is  in  his  books — a  boy  whom  I  know 
must  be  good — a  boy  whom  I  know  is  good." 

"Who?"  asked  the  father. 

Allaine  blushed,  but  Mr  .Bennett  did  not  notice  it. 

"Paul  Milton,"  she  responded.  "He  is  graduating  with 
honors  from  High  School  this  spring  and  will  be  prepared 
to  attend  the  university  in  the  fall." 

It  was  the  first  time  Allaine  had  mentioned  a  boy's  name 
in  the  presence  of  her  father.  The  father  concluded  that 
the  youth  must  be  as  extraordinary  among  boys  as  his  own 
daughter  was  among  girls. 

"I  have  great  confidence  in  your  selection,"  said  Mr. 
Bennett.  "We  shall  send  him  to  the  university  on  a  free 
scholarship." 

Allaine  suddenly  reflected;  if  Paul  knew  the  scholarship 
was  coming  from  her  father,  he  might  surmise  that  she 
had  had  something  to  do  with  it,  and  that,  above  all  things, 
he  must  not  know.    Furthermore,  if  she  explained  this  to 


6o  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

her  father,  then  he  too  might  suspect  that  she  loved  Paul 
Milton.     But  her  father's  next  remark  saved  all. 

"Of  course,  Allaine,"  said  he,  "it  shall  not  be  made 
pubhc  that  I  am  presenting  this  scholarship.  It  will  come 
from  'The  Alumni.'  It  isn't  necessary  that  the  name  of 
Bennett  be  tacked  to  it.  We  are  not  seeking  publicity;  we 
are  trying  to  do  good,  aren't  we  ?" 

Allaine  was  too  happy  to  speak.  Her  affirmation  came 
in  the  form  of  an  embrace. 

"We  are  going  to  clean  the  university,"  he  said  happily, 
"and  we  need  not  tell  Paul  Milton  what  to  do.  I  shall  take 
your  word  that  he  is  an  upright  boy,  and  he  will  see  the 
need  of  reform  with  his  own  eyes." 

Allaine's  love  for  her  father  became  greater  from  that 
day  on,  and  she  decided  to  please  him  no  matter  what  he 
should  ask  of  her,  because  he  had  done  so  much  for  Paul 
Milton. 

"The  Alumni"  notified  Paul  Milton  of  the  free  scholar- 
ship. Paul  was  extremely  happy,  and  yet  the  thought  of 
attending  the  university  and  leaving  his  mother  filled  him 
with  hesitancy. 

"Shall  I  accept  it?"  asked  the  boy. 

"Of  course  you  shall,"  answered  the  mother,  who  ap- 
peared very  happy  and  enthusiastic  outwardly,  although  a 
great  sorrow  had  begun  to  surge  about  her  heart.  "It  is 
the  opportunity  of  a  lifetime.  It  has  been  sent  to  you  from 
God.  Your  father  wanted  you  to  have  a  good  education, 
but  I  doubt  if  he  ever  dreamed  of  your  going  to  a  big  uni- 
versity. He  must  have  spoken  to  God  about  it  when  he 
went  to  heaven,  and  God  has  sent  you  the  scholarship  as  a 
consequence  of  the  interview.  If  He  does  this  much  for 
you.  He  will  do  more;  but  He  will  do  more  only  if  you 
make  use  of  that  which  He  now  offers  you." 

"But  you  will  be  all  alone.  Mother !"  said  the  son. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  said  AHce,  with  a  forced 
smile.  "The  very  thought  of  your  future  will  keep  me  com- 
pany, and  then,  too,  you  will  be  with  me  each  summer  and 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  6i 

each  Christmas.  It  is  not  death  that  is  separating  us,  my 
boy.  It  is  for  a  good  and  great  purpose  that  you  are  leaving 
me,  and  your  absence  and  your  attainments  will  only  make 
me  the  happier  when  you  return." 

"For  a  good  and  great  purpose!"  repeated  Paul  enthu- 
siastically. 

"Yes,  my  son,  and  I  know  you  shall  succeed." 

How  noble  the  widow  was  to  surrender  her  son  so  un- 
selfishly for  service  to  the  world !  How  brave  she  was  to 
conceal  the  deep  sorrow  which  would  follow  their  separa- 
tion !  How  considerate  she  was  not  to  reveal  it,  lest  it 
should  trouble  him  and  interfere  with  his  progress !  Had 
she  not,  after  all,  by  means  of  this  sacrifice,  repaid  God  for 
all  the  happiness  with  which  He  had  blessed  her  by  sending 
this  son,  whom  she  had  kept  so  pure  and  clean  that  he  might 
accomplish  the  task  destiny  was  reserving  for  him. 

She  managed  to  appear  happy,  to  keep  up  her  spirits 
until  the  last  day — the  last  hour — the  last  minute. 

She  embraced  Paul  on  the  doorstep  of  the  little  cottage, 
and  told  him  to  remember  the  things  the  birds  had  taught. 
Then  he  kissed  her  good-bye  and  walked  off  to  the  depot 
with  a  traveling-bag  in  one  hand  and  the  violin  case  in 
the  other.  There  was  no  fashion  about  his  clothes  and  gen- 
eral appearance,  but  his  face  was  clean  and  ruddy,  without 
a  trace  of  the  dissipation  or  the  parental  sin  which  stamp 
the  pale  faces  of  many  well-dressed  boys  with  ugly  lines  and 
blemishes.  There  were  no  fumes  of  a  poisonous  cigarette 
curling  about  his  lips ;  there  was  only  the  purity  and  the 
sweet  memory  of  a  mother's  kiss. 

The  heart  of  the  widow,  which  had  been  gradually  filling 
with  sorrow  during  the  summer,  could  hold  no  more,  and, 
under  the  weight  of  it,  she  sank  to  the  floor  and  remained 
there  sobbing  and  alone  in  her  little  cottage. 

It  was  late  September.  The  sky  was  red  and  gold  with 
one  of  those  magnificent  autumnal  sunsets.  The  colors,  at 
first  warm  and  brilliant,  were  now  gradually  losing  their 
splendor  and  seemed  to  melt  one  into  the  other  to  form  a 
dull  cold  gray,  which  was  finally  effaced  by  the  blackness  of 


62  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

night.  The  leaves,  which  seemed  to  retain  the  warm  shades 
with  which  the  sun  had  painted  the  heavens,  were  falling 
one  by  one  from  the  lonely  trees,  although  no  one  noticed 
them ;  for  the  earth  was  enveloped  in  darkness. 

Yes,  the  sun,  although  it  was  rising  at  that  instant  upon 
some  other  part  of  the  planet,  had  removed  its  warm  bright 
rays  from  the  little  cottage  which  sheltered  Paul  Milton's 
mother,  and  she  believed  her  own  son  had  embraced  her 
in  his  arms  as  he  would  never  embrace  her  again.  She  be- 
Heved  he  had  left  her  to  serve  mankind,  and  when  he  would 
return  permanently  after  he  had  completed  his  work,  he 
would  probably  have  the  reward  which  he  deserved — the 
reward  she  herself  wanted  him  to  have  and  for  which  she 
prayed  to  God — the  reward  which  would  leave  her  lonely, 
however  kindly  he  might  be  and  however  happy  his  success 
would  make  her.  Her  sky  would  no  longer  be  bright  with 
red  and  gold,  but  cold  and  gray,  and  finally  dark,  and  her 
warm  tears  would  also  fall  unnoticed  like  the  leaves  in  the 
night. 

Such  were  the  sad  thoughts  of  the  widow  as  she  sat  on 
the  carpet  with  the  night  falling  around  her.  All  was  silent. 
She  heard  each  tear  as  it  dropped  to  the  floor.  The  almost 
inaudible  thud  against  the  carpet  sounded  like  the  clang 
of  a  hammer,  striking  and  hurting  her  heart,  which  was 
already  sore  with  grief.  Once  in  the  stillness  she  thought 
she  heard  the  strains  of  a  violin  from  the  little  studio  under 
the  roof,  and  she  believed  her  husband  had  returned  to  con- 
sole her.  But  it  was  only  her  imagination.  Not  only  her 
husband  but  her  own  little  musician  had  departed,  taking 
the  violin  with  him.  How  long  before  she  would  hear  it 
again !  How  it  would  scatter  the  gloom  if  she  could  only 
hear  it  now! 

She  arose  and  made  a  light.  But  it  did  not  brighten  her 
sadness ;  it  revealed  more  cruelly  the  absence  of  her  boy. 
There  was  the  plate  and  the  cup  from  which  he  had  had 
his  last  meal  but  a  short  time  before.  His  chair  would  now 
be  vacant,  and  she  must  sit  there  alone.  Nor  would  she 
again  feel  the  secret  happiness  of  his  silent  company  on 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  63 

those  long  winter  evenings  when  he  prepared  his  lessons  in 
the  glow  of  the  old  lamp.  The  happiest  moments  of  her 
life  were  now  nothing  more  than  memories.  She  must 
sit  at  the  table  alone  until  she  grew  sleepy  from  lonesome- 
ness,  and  then  she  herself  must  carry  the  lamp  upstairs — 
the  lamp  which  he  had  always  carried  for  her  to  Hght  the 
way.  There  would  be  no  little  watchman  to  bolt  the  door, 
no  little  protector  to  tiptoe  into  her  chamber  to  press  her  to 
his  manly  bosom  and  print  his  sweet  good-night  upon  her 
lips.  These  thoughts  overwhelmed  her,  and  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  arms  and  wept  more  bitterly. 

When  such  a  cloud  of  sorrow  overshadows  the  soul,  we 
are  often  made  happier  by  the  presence  of  another  heavy 
heart  than  by  one  which  is  light  and  unsympathetic  with 
gayety. 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  widow's  door.  She  did  not  hear 
it  until  it  was  repeated  a  second  time.  Even  then  she 
doubted  it,  and  she  lifted  her  head  to  listen  and  wait.  It 
came  again. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  between  sobs. 

The  door  opened,  and  Allaine  Bennett  stood  on  the 
threshold,  a  little  satchel  in  her  hand. 

*T  know  how  sad  and  lonely  you  must  be,"  said  Allaine 
sweetly,  "and  I  have  come  to  console  you,  because  I  am 
much  to  blame  for  your  sorrow." 

The  widow  was  more  baffled  by  this  remark  than  by  the 
strange  girl's  appearance. 

"You  do  not  know  me,"  continued  Allaine,  placing  her 
arm  about  the  widow's  neck,  "but  we  often  have  friends 
whom  we  do  not  know,  and  yet  these  are  sometimes  our 
closest  and  dearest  friends." 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Alice  gently. 

"Allaine — Allaine  Bennett.  I  came  to  your  cottage  a 
long  time  ago,  bringing  a  candy  heart  for  your  son.  To- 
night I  am  bringing  my  own  heart  for  you." 

The  widow  smiled  with  joy. 

"But  how  could  you  have  caused  my  sorrow?" 


64  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

^'Promise  me  you  will  tell  no  one;  promise  me,  in  par- 
ticular, that  you  will  never  tell  your  son,"  said  Allaine. 

"I  promise,"  said  Alice. 

"It  was  I  who  suggested  that  he  be  presented  with  a 
free  scholarship  for  the  university,"  said  Allaine  very  softly. 

"You  darling!"  exclaimed  Alice,  rising  and  taking 
Allaine  in  her  arms. 

"I  told  my  father  about  Paul's  good  work  at  school, 
and  it  was  through  father  that  the  alumni  sent  him  away." 

"Ah !  how  you  have  helped  him !" 

"I  love  him,"  admitted  Allaine,  blushing. 

"My  Paul!"  said  the  widow,  with  just  a  touch  of  alarm. 

"Yes,  but  I  love  you  as  well,  and  I  love  him  as  much  as 
you  do,  and  both  of  us  can  do  more  for  him  than  either  one 
of  us  alone.  I  shall  continue  to  help  him,  and  by  helping 
him  I  shall  help  you ;  shall  I  not  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Alice  more  contentedly. 

"But  promise  me  again  you  will  not  tell.  Never  breathe 
my  name ;  he  must  not  know  that  I  am  going  to  help  him." 

"I  promise,"  repeated  the  widow ;  and  Allaine  kissed  her. 

"Now  let  me  help  you  with  the  dishes,"  suggested  the 
visitor. 

In  an  instant  she  had  removed  her  hat  and  coat,  and  was 
clearing  the  table. 

"Oh,"  remarked  Alice,  "I  thought  this  was  a  visit." 

"Yes,  a  friendly  visit — not  a  fashionable  one.  May  I 
have  an  apron?" 

The  widow  understood  at  once  that  the  girl  would  insist 
on  helping,  and  she  nonreluctantly  handed  her  a  neatly 
folded  apron  from  the  cupboard.  The  dishes  were  soon 
washed  and  dried  and  placed  on  the  shelves,  and  then  Alice 
and  Allaine  sat  down  and  talked  to  each  other  across  the 
little  red  tablecloth;  they  chatted  until  bedtime. 

"It  is  late,"  said  Alice.  "I  shall  have  to  walk  part  way 
home  with  you." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  intend  to  leave  you  alone  this  evening," 
said  Allaine.  "I  told  father  I  was  going  to  stay  with  you 
the  first  night  after  your  son's  departure.    He  knows  about 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  65 

it.  I  doubt  if  my  mother  will  miss  me,  and  if  she  does, 
Father  can  tell  her  where  I  am." 

"You  are  a  kind  sweet  girl,"  said  Alice,  and  the  tears 
of  happiness  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"You  are  sleepy.     You  wish  to  retire." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Alice. 

And  Allaine  bolted  the  door  and  took  the  lamp. 

"You  lead  the  way." 

The  widow  ascended  the  stairs,  and  the  girl  followed  her 
holding  the  lamp  high  in  one  hand  and  her  satchel  in  the 
other.  There  was  a  cot,  dressed  with  fresh  linens,  just  out- 
side the  door  on  the  first  landing.  The  widow  rolled  it  into 
her  bedroom. 

"Paul  always  slept  on  this,"  said  Alice.  "I  hope  you 
find  it  comfortable." 

"I  know  I  shall,"  said  Allaine,  placing  the  lamp  on  an 
antiquated  but  beautiful  bureau. 

Then  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cot,  removed  her  shoes, 
undressed,  and  stood  before  the  widow  in  a  simple  white 
gown  with  delicate  blue  ribbons  strung  through  the  inser- 
tion about  the  neck  and  sleeves ;  Alice  imagined  it  was  an 
angel  whom  God  had  sent  to  comfort  and  guard  her.  After 
the  girl  knelt  beside  Paul's  cot  and  prayed  for  him,  she 
walked  to  the  widow's  bed,  pressed  her  to  her  soft  white 
bosom,  and  printed  a  good-night  kiss  upon  her  lips.  Then 
she  extinguished  the  lamp,  and  they  were  soon  lost  in  sweet 
and  peaceful  slumber. 

The  express  which  was  taking  Paul  Milton  to  the  uni- 
versity was  dashing  along  like  a  mad  steed  through  the 
night.  The  youth  tossed  about  restlessly  on  his  pillow, 
which  was  moist  with  the  tears  shed  for  his  mother,  whom 
he  had  left  alone  in  the  little  cottage  at  Norford. 


CHAPTER   VI 


POVERTY  AND  WEALTH 


The  house  on  Walnut  Street,  in  front  of  which  Tom 
Kuhler  with  his  two  "lady  friends"  stood  calling  to  Arch 
Coddington  on  the  night  of  the  big  victory,  was  the  house 
in  which  Paul  Milton,  the  freshman,  settled,  when  he  ar- 
rived at  the  university.  "The  Alumni"  had  recommended 
the  location ;  in  fact  Mr.  Wallace  Bennett  had  roomed  there 
himself  some  twenty  years  before,  when  he  was  also  a 
freshman.  The  strains  of  music  from  the  attic  window 
came  from  Samuel  Milton's  violin.  It  was  only  after  he 
had  finished  serving  the  student-boarders,  whose  everlast- 
ing conversation  on  football  kept  the  serpent  green  in  his 
memory,  that  Paul  retired  to  his  room,  where  his  tempest- 
tossed  body  and  mind  finally  became  calm  under  the  influ- 
ence of  melody. 

This  little  retreat  under  the  roof  was  very  dififerent  from 
the  little  studio  which  was  similarly  located  in  the  Milton 
cottage  at  Norford.  The  sloping  roof  made  it  impossible 
to  stand  upright  in  the  room,  except  at  the  very  center.  The 
walls  and  ceiling  were  not  papered.  The  plaster  was  soiled, 
and  in  certain  places,  where  the  rain  had  leaked  through,  it 
had  fallen  away  and  exposed  the  laths.  A  few  pieces  of 
raveled  rag  carpet  covered  the  worst  spots  on  the  floor, 
which  was  almost  equally  rough  and  knotty  throughout. 
There  was  one  small  window,  offering  a  view  of  the  street. 

The  furniture  consisted  of  a  bed,  a  table,  a  chair  and  a 
student's  lamp ;  nothing  more. 

The  iron  bed  was  now  a  total  wreck ;  former  students 
had  played  havoc  with  it.  The  white  enamel  had  fallen  off 
in  flakes,  and  the  black  iron  showed  through.    The  vertical 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  67 

rods  at  the  head  and  at  the  foot  were  hopelessly  twisted  as 
though  some  wild  animal,  imagining  itself  encaged,  had 
forced  them  apart  to  make  its  escape.  The  springs  sagged 
like  a  hammock ;  it  is  probable  that  a  former  drunken  fresh- 
man (perhaps  Mr.  Bennett  himself)  had  danced  upon  them 
oftener  than  he  had  slept  there.  Only  one  of  the  four  posts 
remained  crowned  with  a  brass  knob;  it  is  very  likely  that 
the  other  three  knobs  had  been  fired  at  some  wandering  cat, 
whose  nocturnal  serenades  had  interrupted  what  little  nat- 
ural slumber  the  reveler  had  tried  to  find  while  sober.  It 
little  resembled  the  neat  and  firm  cot  with  its  sweet  linens 
on  which  Allaine  Bennett  slept  the  first  night  after  Paul  had 
deserted  it. 

The  table,  chair  and  lamp  were  all  more  or  less  defective 
and  broken,  but  Milton  soon  became  accustomed  to  them, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  he  was  able  to  work  very  well 
at  his  table  and  sleep  quite  soundly  on  his  bed.  Such  trivial 
matters  never  disturb  a  genius;  the  boy  never  mentioned 
them  in  letters  to  his  mother,  because  he  soon  forgot  about 
them  himself. 

The  free  scholarship  included  little  more  than  tuition 
and  laboratory  expenses.  He  bought  his  own  textbooks 
with  what  little  money  he  had  taken  with  him;  he  could 
not  spend  it  for  better  furniture.  His  mother  had  offered 
him  more,  but  he  had  refused  to  take  it  from  her.  In  no 
way  did  he  wish  to  make  her  less  comfortable  for  the  sake 
of  his  own  conveniences.  He  even  contemplated  sending 
her  some  of  the  money  he  hoped  to  earn  through  the  bureau 
of  self-help.  He  earned  his  food  by  waiting  on  a  table  in 
the  landlord's  dining  room.  The  rent  of  his  room  would 
not  have  amounted  to  much,  but  he  paid  for  it  by  firing  the 
furnace  or  shoveling  snow  in  winter  and  by  mowing  the 
lawn  in  spring.  Mr.  Bennett  could  have  made  and,  in  fact, 
wanted  to  make  life  easier  for  Paul  Milton  by  sending  him 
a  small  allowance  also  from  "The  Alumni,"  but  when  he 
recalled  his  own  experiences  at  the  university,  the  word 
allowance  became  synonymous  with  indolence  and  failure, 
whereas  the  absence  of  it  meant  application  and  success. 


68  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

Milton  met  few  students  outside  of  the  classroom  except 
those  whom  he  served  at  table.  These  boys  would  speak 
to  him  occasionally,  but  the  relation  between  them  and  him 
was  not  the  same  as  that  among  themselves.  The  boy  in 
fact  had  neither  the  time  nor  the  desire  for  friends.  He 
was  generally  at  his  study  table.  The  furnace,  the  snow 
and  the  lawn  offered  him  sufficient  physical  exercise;  there 
was  no  need  of  his  taking  part  in  athletics.  His  music 
afforded  him  all  the  recreation  he  cared  for.  It  was  his 
only  diversion  from  books,  and  after  completing  his  work 
for  the  landlord  and  preparing  his  lessons,  he  would  sit 
for  hours  playing  his  beloved  instrument. 

His  art  was  maturing  day  by  day.  His  violin  had  be- 
come a  loving  and  beloved  servant,  which  obeyed  and  re- 
flected every  mood  of  its  master.  It  always  responded 
sympathetically  and  perfectly  to  the  tone  and  tempo  of  his 
soul — now  agitato,  animato,  affretando,  grandioso;  then  dol- 
orosa, tarando,  morendo.  His  beautiful  flowing  legato  was 
like  a  clear  brook,  meandering  smoothly  and  gracefully 
through  peaceful  meadows.  His  brilliant  but  restless  staccato 
was  like  a  joyous  bird,  flitting  nervously  from  branch  to 
branch  in  a  wind-tossed  tree-top.  There  were  times  when  the 
violin  rumbled  like  distant  thunder,  and  there  were  times 
when  it  pattered  like  rain  upon  the  silent  grass.  It  usually 
sang  simply  and  sweetly  like  an  innocent  child  unknowingly 
lost  in  a  sun-kissed  paradise  of  smiling  blossoms,  but  there 
were  occasional  instances  when  it  cried  out  momentarily 
with  an  incontrollable  passion,  as  though  some  inner  dor- 
mant longing  had  suddenly  awakened,  only  to  return  again 
to  its  unmolested  slumber — just  as  children  often  wake 
with  a  start,  utter  a  strange  peculiar  cry,  and  then  continue 
to  enjoy  the  calmer  dreams  which  float,  like  fairy  clouds, 
across  their  pillows. 

There  was  a  square  opening  in  the  wall  in  Milton's  room, 
covered  by  a  black  iron  grating.  It  was  intended  to  serve 
as  an  inlet  for  heat,  but  it  conducted  more  fumes  than 
warmth.  The  garret  was  not  included  in  the  furnace-circuit 
which  heated  the  house,  and  rather  than  stand  the  extra 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  69 

expense  of  a  gas-stove,  the  landlord  had  constructed  this 
device,  which  connected  the  garret  with  the  kitchen  stove 
by  means  of  a  long  tin  chute,  through  which  his  wife  might 
also  shout  and  wake  the  "waiter"  in  case  he  overslept.  Mil- 
ton kept  the  opening  closed  most  of  the  time,  for  he  pre- 
ferred the  cold  to  the  constant  odor  of  the  cooking. 

It  was  through  this  tin  chute  that  the  landlady  some- 
times heard  Milton's  violin.  She  was  rather  deaf,  and  when 
the  music  did  reach  her  ears  after  traveling  through  this 
metallic  conductor,  she  mistook  it  for  the  noise  made  by 
the  cats  of  the  neighborhood,  who  seemed  to  agree  unani- 
mously that  her  back  yard  was  an  ideal  spot  both  for  court- 
ing and  for  combat. 

The  landlady  never  appeared  in  any  other  part  of  the 
house:  the  kitchen  in  the  basement  was  her  world.  She 
prepared  the  meals,  ironed  the  linen  and  washed  the  dishes. 
Her  table  and  the  food  served  at  it  were  the  .very  best. 
Style,  cleanliness,  and  the  quality  of  the  meats  and  pastries 
made  her  board  the  most  popular  among  the  students  and 
enabled  her  husband  to  collect  ten  dollars  a  week  for  it. 

It  is,  however,  often  best  that  we  do  not  see  where  and 
by  whom  our  tempting  food  is  prepared.  The  kitchen  was 
disorderly,  and  the  landlady  was  never  presentable.  Milton 
was  the  only  student  who  saw  her,  and  then  he  seldom  saw 
more  than  her  fat  steaming  hand  as  it  placed  the  various 
dishes  on  the  "dummy."  But  now  and  then  he  had  occa- 
sion to  descend  into  the  kitchen. 

She  was  round  as  a  sphere.  Her  face  was  scarlet  from 
the  heat ;  in  outline  it  was  almost  a  perfect  circle,  her  eyes, 
nose  and  mouth  all  curiously  bunched  at  the  center.  Her 
hair  was  jet  black,  and  never  combed.  She  was  always  but- 
toned up  in  a  tight,  blue,  moth-eaten  sweater  decorated  with 
class  numerals  and  grease  spots.  She  moved  about  heavily 
in  a  pair  of  thick  woolen  slippers.  She  had  no  assistant, 
but  seemed  chained  to  her  drudgery  like  a  slave  in  the  gal- 
leys. She  never  complained.  She  had  learned  that  it  was 
of  no  avail  to  do  so;  her  husband  was  stingy  and  inconsid- 
erate. 


70  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

Mr.  Sweeny — for  such  was  the  landlord's  name — did 
the  rest  of  the  housework.  A  chambermaid  was  an  unnec- 
essary expense,  and  it  was  unwise  to  place  such  an  article 
in  a  student's  dormitory,  however  ugly  she  might  be ;  he 
had  learned  so  by  experience.  Consequently  Mr.  Sweeny 
himself  made  the  beds  every  morning  and  swept  the  rooms* 
once  a  month. 

Sweeny  was  a  very  small  man  in  more  ways  than  one, 
but  he  alone  was  not  entirely  to  blame  for  his  opinions  and 
his  schemes ;  students  are  not  the  most  pleasant  and  most 
considerate  persons  to  deal  with.  After  demolishing  much 
of  his  furniture,  they  often  skipped  the  town  without  pay- 
ing as  much  as  their  room  rent.  To  even  matters  up  and 
to  effect  a  partial  payment,  he  used  to  hold  their  trunks  and 
in  this  way  obtain  much  clothing.  The  clothes  which  fitted 
him  (or  his  wife),  he  would  keep;  the  others  were  sold 
to  the  Jew  peddler  on  the  street  corner.  Thus  it  was  that 
Mr.  Sweeny  always  dressed  fashionably  though  rather  ex- 
tremely. 

Once,  however,  a  student  got  the  better  of  him.  The 
student  was  ready  to  leave  town.  Two  trunks  were  stand- 
ing in  his  room.  When  the  expressman  called,  Mr.  Sweeny 
sneaked  up  the  stairs  behind  him. 

'*You  have  no  right  to  hold  both  my  trunks,"  claimed 
the  student.    "My  bill  is  not  so  large  as  that." 

"Very  well,"  added  Sweeny.  "I'll  let  the  expressman  take 
the  lighter  one,"  and  he  satisfied  himself  as  to  which  one 
that  was. 

After  the  expressman  had  departed  with  the  trunk  on 
his  back  and  after  the  student  had  left  town,  Sweeny  dis- 
covered that  the  other  trunk  was  empty ;  it  had  been  nailed 
to  the  floor.  He  turned  white  with  anger;  his  little  glassy 
eyes  popped  half  way  out  of  their  sockets,  and  he  snarled 
and  showed  his  teeth.  His  thirst  for  revenge  on  students  in 
general  has  never  yet  been  quenched. 

Such  were  the  landlord  and  landlady  in  the  house  on 
Walnut  Street  in  which  Milton  had  settled.  Such  were  the 
characters  with  whom  he  came  in  contact.     Such  was  the 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  71 

audience  to  whom  he  played  on  his  vioHn.  To  Mrs.  Sweeny, 
as  we  have  previously  been  told,  his  music  sounded  like  cat- 
squawking.  To  Mr.  Sweeny  it  had  much  the  same  effect 
that  soulful  music  has  on  certain  dogs,  who  whine  in  agony 
when  they  hear  it,  as  if  they  had  been  summoned  before  a 
higher  human  conscience  to  atone  for  having  stolen  bones 
from  the  plates  of  their  fellow-creatures. 

Mr.  Sweeny  took  a  far  greater  Hking  to  the  "noises" 
which  were  produced  by  the  mechanical  instruments  in  Cod- 
dington's  apartment,  and  he  would  often  go  there  when  that 
student  was  out,  put  a  band  record  on  his  graphophone  and 
recline  lazily  in  the  elephant-hide  armchair  to  enjoy  one 
of  Coddington's  imported  cigarettes,  tapping  time  on  the 
floor  with  the  dancing-pumps  he  had  inherited  in  lieu  of 
room  rent  from  some  prodigal  son. 

Archibald  Gregory  Coddington  came  from  a  well-to-do 
Southern  family.  He  had  taken  every  possible  means  to 
utilize  and  display  his  wealth,  having  rented  practically  the 
whole  second  floor  of  Mr.  Sweeny's  private  dormitory. 

Every  article  in  his  study  reflected  wealth.  All  of  Mr. 
Sweeny's  furniture  had  been  removed — even  the  carpet. 
The  whole  suite  was  repapered  to  the  taste  of  the  inmate. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  a  dark,  rich  green  and  con- 
ventional rosebushes  embossed  in  gold.  The  paper  was 
hung  by  an  exclusive  New  York  decorator.  Mrs.  Codding- 
ton had  insisted  that  "Archie"  should  have  all  his  work 
(tutoring  included)  done  by  experts,  and  that  his  apart- 
ment at  college  should  in  every  way  be  equal  in  elegance 
and  refinement  to  his  surroundings  at  home.  Her  boy's 
character  must  not  be  ruined  by  a  mediocre  environment. 
The  floors  were  covered  with  Baluchistan  rugs,  and  the 
windows  were  hung  with  old  embroidered  silks  from  Tokio. 

His  desk  was  a  massive  mahogany  table  with  handsomely 
carved  legs.  At  least  six  stirling-silver  picture  frames  stood 
on  the  top  of  it,  each  enclosing  a  different  pose  of  his 
fiancee — Miss  Ruby  Pink,  of  Nashville,  Tennessee,  who  had 
given  him  a  solid-gold  pen  with  a  platinum  point  to  be  used 


72  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

only  when  writing  to  her.  She  had  also  sent  him  seventeen 
gorgeous  pillows,  which  were  exhibited  on  a  blue  velvet 
window-seat,  arranged  so  that  most  of  them  were  visible 
from  the  street. 

Arch's  gift  from  his  father  was  a  copy  of  Cabanel's  La 
Naissance  de  Venus,  done  by  an  American  artist,  whom  the 
senior  Coddington  had  especially  stationed  at  the  Luxem- 
bourg, paying  all  his  expenses  including  a  first-class  passage 
on  the  Lusitania. 

Coddington  had  both  a  pianola  and  a  victrola  in  his 
study.  The  rolls  on  the  top  of  the  former  were  piled  up 
almost  to  the  ceiling.  He  had  stacks  of  records  and  sheet 
music  which  were  just  as  high.  Each  month  when  the  new 
list  of  selections  was  published,  he  had  most  of  them  sent 
to  his  room  on  approval  and  kept  them  so  long  that  he  finally 
preferred  to  pay  for  all  rather  than  be  annoyed  by  the  agent, 
who  called  repeatedly  for  those  he  did  not  care  to  retain. 
Coddington  always  wanted  to  be  "up"  musically.  When  a 
new  comic  opera  was  put  on  the  boards,  he  grew  very  im- 
patient because  the  various  firms  were  so  slow  to  reproduce 
the  songs  on  rolls  and  records,  and,  rather  than  be  behind, 
he  would  purchase  all  the  sheet  music  for  the  entire  show, 
trying  to  play  it  with  one  finger  on  his  piano ;  and  there  he 
would  sit,  not  knowing  one  note  from  the  other  and  accom- 
panying his  own  singing,  although  that  which  he  played, 
that  which  he  sang,  and  that  which  was  written  before  him 
were  three  entirely  different  compositions. 

Modern  invention  is  doing  much  to  preserve  imperfectly 
the  art  of  the  past  and  the  present,  and  to  ruin  that  of  the 
future — and  yet  we  say  we  are  progressing.  In  many  ways 
we  are  declining :  as  a  race,  we  are  certainly  becoming  more 
and  more  satisfied  with  imitation  and  reproduction,  thus 
losing  our  appreciation  and  respect  for  genuineness  and 
originality.  We  are  deserting  the  stage  to  injure  our  sense 
of  sight  by  gazing,  like  bewildered  animals,  upon  the  pain- 
ful jerky  illusions  of  the  cinematograph,  and  we  are  aband- 
oning our  opera  and  music  halls  to  destroy  the  delicacy  of 
our  auditory  nerves  by  listening  for  hours  to  the  scratch 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  73 

scratch  scratch  of  the  graphophone.  It  cannot  be  denied 
that  art  is  gradually  being  replaced  by  mere  mechanism. 
Mechanism  will  never  inspire  or  develop  the  dormant,  ar- 
tistic genius  in  man.  It  is  only  when  the  eye  and  the  ear 
are  acted  upon  by  the  light  and  sound  waves  produced  di- 
rectly by  original  sources  that  true  art  can  mature.  We  are 
rapidly  becoming  a  machine-mad  nation. 

I  am  not  assuming  that  Archibald  Coddington  was  an 
embryonic  genius,  but  he  is  an  exquisite  example  of  the 
degeneration  of  human  energy.  His  money  had  smothered 
in  him  every  flicker  of  both  mental  and  physical  effort.  All 
his  needs  and  wants  were  supplied  by  machines.  His  vic- 
trola  sang  for  him;  his  pianola  played  for  him;  his  auto- 
mobile walked  for  him;  his  tutor  thought  for  him.  (Yes; 
a  tutor  is  also  a  machine.)  Coddington's  whole  existence 
lay  not  in  himself  but  in  the  servants — human,  mechanical 
or  both — who  or  which  surrounded  him. 

His  appearance  was  always  becoming.  His  tailor  and 
his  haberdasher  kept  him  dressed  to  the  height  of  fashion. 
When  he  arrived  at  the  university,  he  signed  a  contract  with 
a  suit-presser  before  he  had  found  a  room. 

Recent  advances  in  tonsorial  art  kept  him  looking  hand- 
some. Arch  never  condescended  to  sit  in  a  public  shop; 
his  private  barber  called  at  the  room  two  or  three  times  a 
week  to  shampoo  and  to  trim  his  straw-colored  hair  to  just 
the  proper  length  and  style,  to  shave  his  silvery  beard,  to 
massage  his  forehead,  to  pinch  his  cheeks,  to  squeeze  his 
pimples,  to  bleach  his  nose,  to  powder  his  neck,  to  polish 
his  nails,  and  to  anoint  him  with  the  sweet-scented  creams 
and  waters  of  Ed.  Pinaud.  One  glance  at  Coddington  was 
enough  to  make  many  a  girl  leave  home. 

An  ancient  proverb  tells  us  that  we  can't  make  a  silk 
purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear,  but  the  modern  clothier  and  barber 
can  accomplish  the  transformation  externally  at  least.  They 
can  lift  a  sot  out  of  the  gutter  and  have  him  looking  like  a 
prince  within  an  hour. 

The  main  reason  why  Coddington  roomed  at  Mr. 
Sweeny's  house  instead  of  an  official  dormitory  of  the  uni- 


74  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

versity  was  the  fact  that  Mr.  Sweeny  served  meals — for 
Coddington  was  always  accustomed  to  taking  his  breakfast 
in  bed. 

Although  Milton  had  waited  on  Coddington  at  table  and 
had  often  recited  in  the  same  class  with  him,  nevertheless 
it  was  a  long  time  before  they  met  formally.  One  night 
after  Paul  had  finished  serving  the  last  student  in  the  din- 
ing room,  he  went  to  the  garret  and  began  to  play  his  violin 
before  preparing  his  lessons  for  the  next  morning.  It  was 
early  in  the  evening.  Some  one  knocked  on  his  door;  he 
answered  it,  and  Coddington  entered  with  some  sheet  music 
under  his  arm. 

"We  have  often  seen  each  other,  but  we  have  never 
really  met,"  said  the  student.  "My  name  is  Coddington.  I 
have  the  room  just  below  you.  Heard  you  fiddling,  and 
thought  I'd  come  up." 

"I  am  glad  to  have  you,"  said  Milton,  as  he  took  the 
boy's  extended  hand  rather  timidly. 

"Do  you  play  any  ragtime?  I've  got  a  bunch  of  new 
stuff  from  a  show  that's  going  to  have  its  first  night  here 
in  town.  Most  of  the  New  York  productions  have  an  open- 
ing performance  in  this  burg,  where  they  try  them  on  the 
dog.  If  a  musical  comedy  meets  with  the  approval  of  the 
students,  it's  sure  to  make  a  smashing  hit." 

Coddington  dropped  the  music  on  the  floor,  pulled  up 
his  trousers  to  prevent  bagging,  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Have  a  smoke?"    He  held  out  his  silver  case. 

"Thanks,  I  don't  use  them,"  replied  Milton. 

"You're  the  first  musician  I've  ever  known  who  doesn't 
dope.  To  hear  you  play,  one  might  think  you  were  lost  in 
a  cloud  of  smoke.  Most  musicians  get  their  inspiration,  or 
whatever  you  call  it,  from  cigars  and  pipes ;  don't  they  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  think  not." 

"You  bet  they  do — and  from  booze  too.  I've  heard  that 
our  best  American  composers,  who  write  these  wonderful 
and  successful  comic  operas,  sit  at  their  desks  with  a  bucket 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  75 

of  beer  beside  them.  They  couldn't  write  a  note  without  it ; 
they  use  it  for  ink.  Didn't  the  old  guy  who  taught  you 
ever  get  tight?" 

'1  received  my  first  lesson  from  the  birds,  who  are  the 
most  natural  and  truest  of  all  musicians.  They  inhale  only 
the  pure  air,  and  they  drink  nothing  but  clear  water.  1 
think  the  quality  of  the  music  is  always  highest  when  it 
comes  from  natural  inspiration.  Most  of  this  stuff — as  you 
call  it — which  is  produced  nowadays  comes  from  brains  that 
are  artificially  excited  by  tobacco  and  wine.  It  scarcely  de- 
serves the  name  of  music." 

"Does  ragtime  bore  you  ?"  asked  Arch  quickly. 

"I  prefer  music  every  time,"  answered  Milton. 

"But  you  wouldn't  mind  playing  over  one  or  two  of 
these ;  would  you  ?"  inquired  Coddington,  as  he  opened  some 
music  and  placed  it  under  the  light  on  the  table.  "I'm  going 
down  to  the  theatre  tonight,  and  I'd  like  to  have  an  idea  of 
what  the  songs  are  going  to  be  Hke." 

Milton  placed  the  violin  under  his  chin  and  played 
through  one  of  the  songs.  It  is  almost  comical  to  hear  a 
genuine  musician  attempt  to  play  ragtime. 

"It  doesn't  seem  raggy  enough,"  declared  the  critic. 
"You  don't  altogether  get  the  swing  of  it.  If  you  heard  the 
chorus  girls  sing  it  once  or  twice,  you'd  do  much  better. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  musical  comedy?" 

"No,  I  haven't,"  answered  Milton. 

''Come  along  with  us  tonight." 

"I  can't  afford  it ;  I  need  all  my  money  for  books." 

"It's  on  me — free  lesson — no  charge.  These  girls  will 
put  you  next  to  the  tempo ;  they  have  the  rag  movement  not 
only  in  their  voices  but  in  their  heads,  arms,  legs,  every- 
thing." 

"I  haven't  time;  I  must  prepare  my  lessons  for  to- 
morrow." 

"Bosh!  you'll  soon  get  over  that;  I'm  over  it  already. 
In  fact  I  never  came  to  this  place  with  the  idea  of  studying. 
I  have  a  private  tutor  to  do  all  that  for  me.  I  was  told 
before  I  came  here  that  a  fellow  could  practically  buy  a  di- 


yd  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

ploma.  I  came  to  see  the  football  games,  meet  the  boys,  and 
have  a  general  good  time.  By  the  way,  what  course  are  you 
going  to  take  next  year  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  specialize  in  mathematics,"  said  Milton. 

"Rot !  that's  too  much  work.  I  elected  the  Select  Course 
— the  gentleman's  course.  That's  the  one  that's  been  made 
purely  cultural;  they  scarcely  ever  open  a  textbook.  We 
will  devote  most  of  our  time  to  art,  literature  and  language. 
We  get  a  taste  of  mathematics.  We  can  usually  compute 
the  area  of  a  square,  but  a  circle  stumps  us.  The  fellows  do 
all  they  can  to  keep  the  grinds  out  of  this  course.  Yester- 
day, some  poor  fool  told  the  teacher  that  the  assignment 
was  too  easy,  and  the  fellows  all  footed  a  petition  to  send 
him  back  to  Engineering.  We've  got  an  awful  drag  with 
the  faculty.  We  represent  the  wealth  of  the  school;  most 
all  of  the  frat  men  are  chosen  from  our  ranks.  It's  the  frat 
men  who  give  the  school  its  reputation.  That's  why  we 
get  everything  we  want.  One  of  our  profs  cut  his  class 
thirty-three  times  last  year ;  God  bless  him.  They  were  all 
eight  o'clock  recitations  too.  The  course  is  a  regular  gut; 
that's  what  makes  it  a  drawing  card.  It's  larger  than  all 
the  other  courses  put  together.  If  they  ever  abolish  it,  they 
might  as  well  abolish  the  school;  but  the  university  knows 
its  business." 

Coddington  took  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  the  time. 

"Sorry  you  won't  go  with  me,"  he  added.  "It's  going 
to  be  a  corkin'  good  show — the  best  looking  and  shapeliest 
chorus  that  ever  left  New  York  City.  Perhaps  we'll  go  out 
together  some  time  later  on." 

Milton  said  nothing,  but  this  postponement  of  the  stu- 
dent's invitation  remained  strangely  in  his  mind.  Codding- 
ton picked  up  the  sheet  music,  glanced  curiously  about  the 
room,  and  then  left,  closing  the  door. 

He  had  sized  up  the  fellow  in  the  garret.  When  he  re- 
turned to  his  own  room,  he  lighted  another  cigarette  and 
buried  himself  among  Ruby's  pillows,  where  he  laughed 
heartily  over  the  idea  of  the  birds  who  "inhaled  only  pure 
air  and  drank  nothing  but  clear  water."    What  a  sad  bird 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  77 

this  was  which  had  built  its  nest  in  the  rafters  over  his  head 
and  which  chirped  and  squawked  Hke  a  common,  ordinary, 
vulgar  sparrow — the  kind  he  used  to  shoot  by  the  dozens 
with  his  nickel-plated  rifle  at  home !  What  an  insignificant 
grind  he  had  discovered!  What  a  disgrace  to  the  univer- 
sity !  How  fortunate  that  he  was  concealed  up  there  in  that 
God-forsaken  hole!  "Pooh!  Pooh!"  thought  the  gayer 
bird,  as  he  swallowed  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  soda  and  then 
flew  away  to  the  theatre  to  joint  the  other  feathers  of  his 
flock. 

Coddington's  visit  had  also  given  Milton  food  for 
thought.  He  was  indeed  the  first  caller  Milton  had  had. 
Why  this  man,  above  all  others,  should  see  fit  to  ascend  the 
stairs  to  his  garret  was  something  which  Milton  could  not 
decipher.  He  had  often  glanced  into  Coddington's  apart- 
ments as  he  passed  the  door,  and  he  had  noticed  the  lux- 
urious furniture  and  the  decorations.  He  wondered  how 
a  man  surrounded  by  such  things  could  concentrate  his 
mind  on  his  books.  Comparing  this  environment  with  his 
own,  he  realized  how  different  from  himself  must  be  the  boy 
who  lived  in  it.  It  was  likely  that  they  would  never  meet 
as  friends.  Milton  had  no  desire  for  friends,  and  surely 
Coddington  would  not  care  to  associate  with  the  "waiter." 
Neither  was  it  the  violin  which  had  attracted  Coddington 
to  the  garret;  that  was  merely  an  excuse.  Milton  had 
learned,  from  the  pounding  on  the  pianola  and  from  the 
scratch  of  the  victrola,  the  kind  of  music  that  appealed  to 
the  student  who  roomed  below  him.  It  was  very  probable 
that  they  were  mutually  bored  by  each  other's  tastes.  They 
had  nothing  in  common. 

What  was  it  then  that  brought  the  two  boys  together? 
It  was  the  force  of  destiny — a  far  stronger  and  stranger 
force  than  magnetism,  which  also  attracts  unlike  charges. 
At  heart,  Coddington  was  trying  to  avoid  Milton.  He  really 
did  not  care  to  be  seen  in  his  company  at  the  theatre;  he 
was  glad  his  invitation  had  been  refused,  and  yet  he  had 
suggested  to  Milton  that  they  go  out  together  sometime 
again  later  on.    Coddington  hated  Milton ;  he  even  hesitated 


78  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

before  leaving  his  graphophone  that  night  to  creep  half  re- 
luctantly on  his  hands  and  knees  up  the  dark  stairs  to  the 
garret.  Nor  had  Milton  felt  or  expressed  a  desire  for  this 
visit.  There  was  some  mysterious  power  which  had  taken 
the  wealthier  boy  to  the  poorer  one.  That  power  was  send- 
ing him  as  a  messenger  to  communicate  with  the  solitary 
student,  who,  though  he  was  considered  inferior,  neverthe- 
less lived  above  him.  But  the  student  was  not  prepared  to 
receive  that  communication  in  full.  There  were  other  pow- 
ers also  exerting  influence  over  Paul  Milton.  He  was  una- 
ware of  some ;  aware  of  others.  There  was  Alice,  and  there 
was  Allaine,  and  we  shall  later  meet  with  several  more  who 
will  serve  as  channels  to  conduct  the  various  forces  whose 
united  influences  fashion  the  destiny  of  the  individual. 
These  forces  will  each  act  in  their  turn,  drawing  him  first 
this  way,  then  that,  confronting  him  with  doubt,  but  event- 
ually carrying  him  off  in  the  direction  of  that  path  which 
he  alone  must  travel.  These  are  curious  forces.  Their 
action  and  their  resultant  can  never  be  predicted;  they  dis- 
obey all  physical  laws. 

It  was  not  that  Milton  disliked  either  Coddington  or  the 
theatre.  It  was  not  that  he  feared  their  influence.  Cod- 
dington's  continual  reference  to  chorus  girls  did  not  seem 
to  phase  him.  It  was  the  boy's  love  for  books  and  study 
that  made  him  decline  Coddington's  invitation,  and  had  it 
not  been  that  Coddington,  in  his  conversation,  had  derided 
scholarship  and  corroborated  the  opinions  which  Milton 
himself  had  formed  after  the  football  victory — had  it  not 
been  for  this,  it  is  likely  that  Milton  would  have  given  the 
interview  no  further  thought.  But  now  there  seemed  to 
stand  before  him  two  men — Kuhler  and  Coddington.  The 
one  represented  football  and  brute  strength;  the  other 
wealth  and  mental  weakness.  Both  of  them  were  enemies 
to  scholarship,  and  yet  they  seemed  to  be  the  foundation  on 
which  the  university  flourished  and  on  which  its  popularity 
depended.  To  his  mind,  they  were  joined  together,  and  in 
their  union  he  saw  a  means  which  was  tending  to  defeat 
the  real  purpose  of  the  institution.     This  inspired  him  to 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  79 

work  all  the  harder  over  his  books,  and  it  is  in  this  mood 
that  we  shall  leave  him  in  Mr.  Sweeny's  garret  for  his  re- 
maining undergraduate  days. 

During  his  later  freshman  days,  Coddington  frequently 
brought  Tom  Kuhler  to  dinner,  and  Milton  served  both  of 
them.  At  the  end  of  the  year  these  two  enemies  of  schol- 
arship were  fortunately  removed  from  Milton's  presence. 
Kuhler  left  the  university  after  graduation.  Coddington 
left  Mr.  Sweeny's  house,  because  he  had  been  elected  to  a 
fraternity.  He  took  all  his  furniture  and  decorations  with 
him — all  but  the  wall  paper,  and  he  threw  several  bottles  of 
ink  at  that;  Coddington  and  Sweeny  had  not  been  the  best 
of  friends. 

The  fraternity  to  which  Coddington  had  been  elected 
was  the  same  fraternity  which  Tom  Kuhler  had  made.  It 
was  through  Kuhler  that  Coddington  got  in.  All  the  most 
prominent  athletes  and  all  the  wealthier  undergraduates 
were  included  in  its  membership.  Full  backs  and  green- 
backs were,  in  fact,  the  two  standards  to  which  it  almost 
exclusively  adhered.  It  was  perhaps  the  oldest  fraternity 
of  the  university.  Mr.  Bennett  had  also  worn  its  Greek  let- 
ters but  had  now,  for  some  reason  or  other,  discarded  them. 


CHAPTER  VII 

HIGHER   EDUCATION    WITHOUT   A    COLLEGE 

Alice  Milton's  life  without  her  son  was  not  so  lonely 
as  she  had  anticipated.  Allaine's  over-night  visit  the  first 
evening  after  Paul's  departure  for  the  university  had  dis- 
pelled the  gloom,  and  although  the  girl  slept  at  home  there- 
after, she  had  introduced  a  permanent  atmosphere  of  calm 
and  contentment  in  the  widow's  cottage.  Alice  now  felt 
that  some  one  else,  aside  from  Paul,  was  near  and  dear  to 
her,  that  some  one  had  replaced  him,  or  had  at  least  replaced 
his  loving  and  lovable  personality,  for  Allaine  indeed  called 
regularly  every  afternoon  before  returning  home  from 
school.  Neither  her  father  nor  her  mother  were  aware  of 
this.  Mr.  Bennett  knew  of  course  that  Allaine  had  stayed 
with  AHce  that  first  night ;  but  he  decided  it  was  the  widow's 
loneliness,  rather  than  his  daughter's  interest  in  her  son, 
that  prompted  Allaine  to  act  as  she  had. 

The  following  year,  after  completing  her  course  of  study 
at  the  High  School,  she  continued  to  call  at  the  cottage, 
always  bringing  some  dainty  morsel  of  food  from  home. 
Her  father  and  mother  still  knew  nothing  of  these  little 
journeys,  for  Allaine  had  quite  incidentally  found  a  subter- 
fuge :  she  had  enlisted  in  the  army  of  charity  workers,  much 
to  her  father's  delight  and  much  to  her  mother's-  disgust. 
She  made  daily  visits  to  the  poor  of  the  town  with  her  little 
basket  on  her  arm.  But  this  basket  contained  more  than 
the  food  she  carried  to  the  widow ;  it  contained  mental  food 
for  the  little  ones  and  grown-ups,  whom  she  was  trying  to 
improve.  In  it  were  a  number  of  books — some  for  children, 
some  for  adults,  some  for  amusement,  some  for  instruction. 
So  the  widow's  cottage  was  not  the  only  cottage  which 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  8i 

Allaine  brightened  with  her  presence,  although  it  was  dis- 
tinctly different  from  the  others,  and  her  mission  there  was 
not  entirely  altruistic.  The  woman  in  this  cottage  was  per- 
haps her  intellectual  superior,  but  the  persons  in  the  hovels 
along  her  daily  line  of  march,  which  terminated  at  this  lit- 
tle paradise  of  cleanliness  and  cheer,  had  not  yet  seen  the 
light.  Their  souls  were  enveloped  in  darkness  and  ignor- 
ance; their  faces  and  bodies  were  sometimes  marred  by 
filth  and  immorality. 

The  gentleness  of  Allaine's  manner  and  the  purity  of 
her  face  brought  happiness  to  many  a  home  which  had 
previously  known  only  indolence  and  misery.  Her  pic- 
ture books  kept  the  children  off  the  streets,  where  they 
usually  met  with  temptation  and  vice.  The  older  ones  she 
sent  to  school ;  the  younger  ones  were  under  her  own  in- 
struction. She  first  taught  them  to  keep  themselves  clean ; 
she  would  not  permit  them  to  fondle  the  fascinating  pages 
before  they  had  washed  their  hands.  The  colored  pic- 
tures were  irresistible,  and  therefore  the  hands  were  always 
clean. 

"Miss  Bennett's  comin'  this  mornin';  we'd  better  git 
washed  up." 

She  taught  them  the  names  of  animals,  flowers  and 
birds,  and  she  had  them  commit  little  verses  which  were 
instructive  and  not  mere  childish  jingles.  They  learned  to 
love  her.  They  would  cling  to  her  skirt  and  climb  to  her 
knee  to  listen  to  her  stories.  One  little  fellow  always 
reached  up  to  pat  her  pretty  pink  cheek  and  to  stroke  her 
soft  golden  hair.  Children  naturally  admire  and  love  beauty 
and  cleanliness.  It  is  mostly  because  they  are  surrounded 
by  untidy  parents  that  the  children  in  the  tenements  are 
themselves  always  covered  with  grime  and  soot.  Some  of 
the  mothers  noticed  the  affection  which  their  little  ones  re- 
vealed for  Allaine,  and  these  mothers,  as  well  as  their  chil- 
dren, took  to  cleaner  ways. 

Many  of  the  mothers  could  neither  read  nor  write.  Each 
morning  she  recited  little  paragraphs  which  seemed  to  up- 
lift them,  and  she  always  left  a  bouquet  of  bright  flowers 


82  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

on  the  kitchen  table  as  gentle  reminders  for  the  message 
which  the  verse  or  prose  contained. 

With  those  who  could  read,  she  left  books  and  clippings 
from  magazines  and  newspapers,  which  she  afterwards 
called  for  and  circulated  among  others.  She  insisted  that 
these  be  kept  unsoiled  and  untorn.  The  idea  of  cleanliness 
was  always  foremost  in  her  teaching,  and  although  she 
rarely  attacked  the  mothers  directly  for  their  sloven  con- 
dition, she  gradually  effected  a  change  in  their  personal 
appearance  by  insisting  that  they  handle  her  own  books  with 
care  and  respect. 

The  men  were  usually  at  work  when  she  made  her 
rounds,  but  some  of  them  who  were  without  jobs  on  account 
of  their  indolence  and  intemperance  seemed  to  experience  a 
sense  of  dishonor  when  she  appeared. 

"Me  ole  man  hain't  turned  a  hand  for  three  months," 
complained  Mrs.  Maloney.  "He's  always  drunk  and  gin- 
erally  courtin'  the  hussy  next  door,  he  is.  But  the  other 
day  when  he  saw  you  a  lookin'  so  pritty  and  rosy  and  clean, 
he  told  me  you  made  him  'shamed  of  hisself." 

"A  clean  woman  can  do  much  to  keep  a  man  straight," 
suggested  Allaine. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Maloney  had  washed  her  face 
thoroughly,  combed  her  hair,  and  was  wearing  a  clean  white 
apron.  Allaine  tapped  on  the  door;  Mrs.  Maloney  an- 
swered. 

"Is  Mrs.  Maloney  in?"  asked  Allaine. 

"Sure  and  oi'm  her,"  said  the  transformation. 

And  a  week  later  Pat  had  a  job. 

Thus  Allaine  was  learning  more  and  more  of  life  each 
day  and  was  doing  far  more  than  she  realized  to  better  the 
condition  of  the  poorer  people.  Her  methods  were  gener- 
ally kind  and  gentle:  they  seemed  to  work  wonders  upon 
the  persons  with  whom  she  dealt. 

But  Allaine's  higher  education  was  not  confined  to  con- 
tact with  every-day  life  only ;  she  also  had  access  to  books. 
The  fact  that  her  father  had  resumed  the  study,  which  he 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  83 

had  earlier  neglected  at  the  university,  was  of  great  benefit 
to  her,  and  she  spent  her  evenings  in  his  library  perusing 
and  reading  the  volumes  which  were  rapidly  accumulating 
there.  It  seemed  Mr.  Bennett  and  Allaine  had  founded  a 
college  in  their  own  home,  in  which  they  alternately  became 
teacher  and  pupil  to  each  other;  for  the  father  saw  much 
that  escaped  the  daughter,  and  she  called  his  attention  to 
many  things  which  at  first  reading  had  not  appealed  to  him. 

Mr.  Bennett's  library  was  growing,  and  the  very  latest 
editions  of  works  by  famous  writers  were  soon  placed  on 
the  shelves.  A  new  set  of  Emerson  had  simultaneously  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  both  father  and  daughter.  It 
included,  in  addition  to  the  essays  already  known,  the  jour- 
nals of  this  New  England  poet  and  philosopher,  which  were 
now  published  for  the  first  time. 

At  the  time  he  was  attending  the  university,  if  any  one 
had  suggested  to  Mr.  Bennett  that  he  read  Emerson,  he 
would  have  laughed  and  condemned  the  books  as  dry  and 
unpenetrative.  And  yet,  had  he  made  but  one  earnest  effort 
to  understand  the  great  thoughts  recorded  there,  he  would 
soon  have  developed  a  deep  satisfaction  from  the  big  truths, 
which  at  that  time  would  have  helped  keep  him  on  the  path 
he  had  now  resolved  to  follow. 

The  pictures  of  Emerson,  which  appeared  as  frontis- 
pieces to  certain  volumes  and  which  showed  the  good  man 
at  various  periods  of  his  life,  awakened  in  Mr.  Bennett  a 
supreme  reverence  for  the  great  author.  He  gazed  at  them 
often  and  studied  the  development  of  the  man's  character 
as  revealed  in  his  countenance.  There  was  a  moral  beauty 
in  that  face,  which  seemed  to  strengthen  and  yet  grow  more 
mellow  as  the  years  advanced. 

In  the  Journals  for  1 838-1 841,  there  was  an  engraving 
of  the  author  at  the  age  of  forty.  It  was  this  period  of 
manhood  which  Mr.  Bennett  himself  was  now  experiencing. 
How  he  wished  that  his  own  face  could  reflect  the  rectitude 
of  youth  which  was  still  beaming  in  those  large,  dark,  clear, 
expressive  and  far-seeing  eyes,  softened  under  the  shadow 
of  the  heavy  mobile  brows ! 


84  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

He  often  turned  to  the  picture  in  Lectures  and  Biograph- 
ical Sketches,  showing  the  moraHst  at  the  age  of  seventy. 
Would  that  he,  Mr.  Bennett,  could  reach  that  age  and  ac- 
complish, in  the  life  that  was  yet  before  him,  half  the  good 
which  this  man  had  done  for  humanity  through  the  noble 
example  set  by  his  upright  life  and  through  the  writings 
he  had  left  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  it.  The  eyebrows, 
like  the  hair  which  covered  and  crowned  his  beautifully 
shaped  head  and  brain,  were  slowly  becoming  white  with 
purity  and  age,  accentuating  the  spiritual  significance  of 
the  light  which  enveloped  and  bathed  the  tired  eyes — eyes 
which  seemed  to  have  observed  and  recorded  perhaps  more 
than  God  Himself  had  expected  of  them.  His  all-reaching 
service  to  man  was  also  indicated  by  the  folds  and  lines  in 
his  soft  brown  cheeks — Hke  furrows  in  fertile  fields  which 
had  yielded  a  golden  and  inexhaustible  harvest  to  feed  the 
minds  of  future  scholars  and  to  awaken  and  develop  their 
moral  sentiment. 

Mr.  Bennett  spoke  of  all  these  things  to  Allaine,  who 
soon  acquired  an  insatiable  thirst  for  the  thoughts  of  the 
revered  philosopher,  and  she  read  and  reread  the  soft,  neatly 
printed  pages,  underlining  and  double-underlining  many 
wonderful  sentences  and  beautiful  paragraphs,  which  helped 
her  in  her  work  and  which  she  hoped  might  some  day  help 
Paul  Milton  in  his ;  for  they  were  surely  words  from  God — 
words  which  God  had  heralded  to  mankind  through  this 
particular  man. 

The  widow  Milton  kept  her  promise:  she  never  men- 
tioned Allaine's  name  before  her  son  or  in  any  way  hinted 
that  Allaine  was  helping  him.  Paul  never  once  thought  of 
her;  and  when  he  returned  at  Christmas  and  at  Easter  to 
spend  a  week  or  two  with  his  mother  at  Norford,  Allaine 
discontinued  visiting  the  cottage,  although  she  often  walked 
by  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  boy  whom  she  was  striving  to 
elevate  by  her  very  absence.  Sometimes  she  would  pass  him 
on  the  street ;  how  it  would  please  her  to  be  near  him !  He 
of  course  never  recognized  her.     After  he  returned  to  the 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  85 

university  she  resumed  her  visits  and  brought  little  tokens 
to  show  that  her  love  for  Alice  and  her  son  had  in  no  way- 
diminished. 

During  the  long  summer  vacations  Paul  helped  his 
mother  in  the  house  and  in  the  garden,  and  played  to  her 
from  the  little  studio  under  the  roof.  He  had  made  no 
friends  at  the  university  and  consequently  did  not  miss  them. 
He  was  glad  to  get  away  from  Mr.  Sweeny's  garret  in 
spring  and  equally  glad  to  return  to  it  and  his  books  in 
September. 

The  Bennetts  would  motor  to  the  shore  or  the  mountains, 
where  Mrs.  Bennett  spent  the  whole  day  displaying  her 
wardrobe  while  Mr.  Bennett  and  Allaine  explored  the  coast 
or  the  cool  forests  seeking  quiet  secluded  retreats,  where 
they  might  continue  to,  study  and  read  the  books  which  they 
had  brought  with  them.  Among  these  were  always  a  few 
volumes  of  Emerson,  to  which  they  frequently  referred  to 
enjoy  again  the  passages  they  had  marked  and  which  had 
stimulated  their  mutual  desire  to  reform  existing  conditions. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ANOTHER   THING    KUHLER   DID    FOR    HIS    ALMA    MATER 

Good  scholars  are  seldom  praised  by  the  undergraduates 
of  a  large  university.  The  average  student  prefers  to  ig- 
nore or  ridicule  them.  An  active  interest  in  scholarship 
generally  leads  to  obscurity.  But  good  scholars  do  attract 
the  attention  of  the  faculty,  who,  unfortunately,  at  once 
undertake  to  overdevelop  their  genius  and  isolate  them  from 
the  student-body,  which  stands  in  great  need  of  their 
example.  It  is  extreme  folly  to  continue  sharpening  that 
tool  which  is  already  sharp  enough,  by  grinding  it  down  to 
nothing.  When  the  mind  is  keen  enough,  let  it  operate  on 
the  ways  of  mankind ;  let  it  cut  deep  and  bring  to  the  sur- 
face and  remove  the  corruption  which  is  retarding  and 
dwarfing  the  real  progress  of  the  world. 

While  Paul  Milton  was  working  away  in  Mr.  Sweeny's 
garret,  he  was  far  removed  from  his  classmates  and  con- 
temporaries, who  scarcely  knew  of  his  existence.  Even 
Archibald  Coddington  had  forgotten  about  him.  But  his 
name  was  frequently  brought  up  at  faculty  meetings,  where 
a  great  future  was  predicted  for  him.  He  had  indeed 
proved  himself  a  rare  genius  in  mathematics.  His  instruc- 
tors claimed  that  they  had  found  in  him  a  real  prodigy,  who 
would  shed  luster  upon  the  university  through  the  big  the- 
orems he  would  eventually  unearth.  The  institution  must 
by  all  means  retain  him  and  do  everything  possible  to 
nourish  and  develop  the  astonishing  power  of  investigation 
revealed  in  his  original  methods  and  solutions. 

The  month  of  June  had  arrived — the  last  month  of 
Paul's  last  year  at  the  university.  He  was  about  to  grad- 
uate with  many  honors,  although  the  public  announcement 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  87 

had  not  yet  been  made.  Just  before  the  close  of  recita- 
tions, his  professor  summoned  him  for  an  interview  and 
was  far  from  modest  in  praising  the  boy's  work,  offering 
him  a  free  graduate  scholarship  to  continue  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge. 

"I  shall  have  to  think  it  over,"  said  Milton.  "I've  been 
away  from  my  mother  for  four  years.  I  feel  that  I  should 
return  to  her  and  begin  to  earn  money ;  but  I  shall  con- 
sider it." 

Nevertheless,  the  boy  was  extremely  happy.  That  even- 
ing after  he  had  brushed  the  crumbs  from  the  table  and 
arranged  it  for  breakfast,  he  thought  the  matter  over. 
Should  he  seize  this  opportunity  or  let  it  go  by.  Would  it 
be  right  to  leave  his  mother  for  two  or  three  more  years  ?  It 
would  be  very  selfish  to  do  so.  And  yet  she  had  never  once 
complained  of  his  absence.  Surely  if  she  had  missed  him 
so  much  during  these  four  years,  one  word  would  have 
escaped  to  communicate  her  loneliness.  Perhaps  she  had 
formed  friendships  with  other  women  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  had  not,  however,  seen  these  friends  at  the  cottage  dur- 
ing vacations.  Yet  something  seemed  to  tell  him  she  was 
not  entirely  alone,  and,  rather  than  confute  this  comforting 
thought,  he  decided  not  to  question  her.  After  all,  was  not 
he  also  alone,  and  was  he  sad  for  that  reason?  Then  he 
recalled  the  noble  words  with  which  she  had  encouraged 
him  when  led  to  hesitate  before  accepting  the  first  free 
scholarship  from  "The  Alumni." 

"It  is  for  a  good  and  great  purpose  that  you  are  leaving 
me,  and  your  absence  and  your  attainments  will  only  make 
me  the  happier  when  you  return." 

Did  that  word  absence  cover  more  than  four  years  ?  Ah, 
it  must  have,  for  as  yet  he  could  not  see  very  clearly  "the 
good  and  great  purpose"  for  leaving  her.  Aside  from  the 
honors,  which  are  conferred  every  year,  what  had  he  ac- 
complished? He  had  completed  a  four-year  course.  He 
would  receive  a  diploma.  Of  what  good  was  a  diploma? 
Arch  Coddington  told  him  he  could  buy  one.  Arch  Cod- 
dington,  who  had  never  looked  inside  of  a  book,  was  going 


88  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

to  take  the  same  degree  that  would  be  conferred  upon  him- 
self for  all  his  earnest  and  consistent  study!  Coddington 
hated  learning,  while  he — Milton — loved  it.  Was  there  no 
reward  to  distinguish  love  from  hatred  ?  Yes ;  the  graduate 
scholarship.  The  "good  and  great  purpose,"  to  which  his 
mother  referred,  would  not  become  apparent  until  he  had 
captured  a  higher  degree — a  degree  which  could  not  be 
bought — a.  degree  which  proved  that  he  had  the  ability  to 
do  something  bigger — something  out  of  the  ordinary.  He 
must  please  his  mother  by  all  means  and  therefore  prepare 
himself  for  that  "good  and  great  purpose ;"  he  must  accept 
the  graduate  scholarship. 

He  had  just  reached  this  conclusion  when  he  heard  a 
sharp  rap  on  his  door. 

"Come  in." 

It  was  Arch  Coddington — Arch  Coddington  who  had 
never  returned  since  that  first  visit  in  the  freshman  year — 
Arch  Coddington  who  despised  him  and  his  studiousness 
and  his  goodness. 

"Hello  there,  Paul,"  said  the  student,  as  he  took  Mil- 
ton's hand  and  pressed  it  as  though  it  were  the  hand  of  his 
best  friend.  "I've  come  around  to  get  some  help  from  you, 
I've  got  a  condition  in  math  hanging  over  from  last  year, 
and  if  I  don't  pass  it  off  I  can't  graduate.  I've  tried  to 
reserve  hours  with  every  tutor,  but  they're  all  filled  up. 
They're  pretty  busy  now  you  know — right  before  the  finals. 
I  don't  know  a  damn  about  the  subject.  I  could  no  more 
work  it  up  by  myself  than  I  could  kiss  my  own  forehead. 
What's  more  the  exam  comes  tomorrow  morning  at  eight 
o'clock — it's  a  crime  the  inconsideration  the  faculty  have 
for  repeaters.  I  must  get  some  one  to  help  me  tonight,  or 
I  won't  get  my  dip.  You'll  do  it;  won't  you?  I  know 
you're  a  good  fellow." 

And  Coddington  clapped  him  on  the  back,  as  if  trying 
to  force  him  to  consent. 

Just  a  few  minutes  before,  Milton  was  asking  himself 
if  there  was  no  reward  to  distinguish  application  from  neg- 
ligence.    Were   Coddington   and   he  to   receive   the   same 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  89 

degree?  Ah,  it  now  rested  with  Milton  himself  to  decide 
that  question.  Coddiiigton  was  now  at  Milton's  mercy: 
Should  Milton  prevent  him  from  getting  the  diploma  ?  But, 
what  was  Milton's  answer? 

"Yes ;  I  will  help  you." 

And  why  had  he  consented  ?  Was  it  because  he  pitied  a 
fellow-student?  Perhaps.  But  was  there  not  some  other 
power  at  work — some  power  which  said  to  him  inaudibly: 
"Go !  you  have  much  to  learn  from  this  man." 

"Good,"  said  Coddington. 

"Shall  we  work  here?"  suggested  Milton. 

"No;  come  down  to  my  room  at  the  frat  house:  I've 
got  every  examination  paper  in  this  subject  for  the  last  ten 
years.  That's  one  of  the  big  advantages  of  belonging  to  a 
college  fraternity.  Those  who  have  gone  before  have 
hoarded  exams  and  notebooks  to  make  life  easier  for  us 
who  follow.  We've  got  the  solutions  of  all  the  problems 
in  the  text — but  then  they  are  apt  to  spring  a  new  one  on 
us  now  and  then." 

The  two  boys  walked  down  Walnut  Street  to  Codding- 
ton's  chapter  house,  where  they  were  soon  seated  before  his 
table  and  the  six  poses  of  Miss  Ruby  Pink.  The  examina- 
tion papers  were  also  on  the  desk ;  for  Coddington  had  been 
looking  them  over,  only  to  discover  that  he  could  not  answer 
a  single  question. 

"We  will  not  need  these,"  said  Milton,  as  he  pushed  the 
papers  aside.  "That  is  no  way  to  prepare  for  a  test.  Learn 
the  fundamental  principles,  and  then  you  can  solve  any 
problem  if  you  will  only  stick  to  it." 

"All  right,"  said  Arch,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "Let's  have 
the  fundamental  principles." 

Milton  began  to  explain  and  then  applied  his  method  to 
a  problem.  Coddington  seemed  to  understand  perfectly, 
for  the  exposition  was  very  clear. 

"What  a  snap!  Why  any  fool  can  work  that  problem 
when  he  knows  the  principle,"  said  Arch,  as  he  sent  a  ring 
of  smoke  whirling  across  the  desk. 

"Yes ;  let  me  see  you  try  one  similar  to  it." 


90  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

Milton  invented  one,  and  Coddington  solved  it  with  ease. 

"Is  that  right  ?"  asked  Arch. 

"Yes/*  answered  the  tutor. 

"That's  a  cinch." 

"Then  let  us  pass  on  to  something  else,"  said  Milton. 

The  two  boys  worked  together  for  an  hour  and  a  half. 
Once  during  that  time  they  were  interrupted  by  two  stu- 
dents who  entered  Coddington's  room  wearing  their  caps. 
It  seemed  they  had  come  from  a  room  across  the  hall. 

"Are  you  going  with  us.  Arch  ?"  asked  one  of  them. 

"Not  just  now.  I'm  boning  for  my  condition  exam. 
Come  and  meet  my  old  freshman  friend — Paul  Milton: 
"Red"  Dillinger  and  "Fat"  McCloskey." 

Milton  arose  and  shook  hands  with  them. 

"Well,  we  won't  disturb  you,"  said  McCloskey. 

"See  you  later,  boys,"  said  Coddington,  as  they  walked 
out. 

It  seemed  Coddington  could  no  longer  concentrate  his 
mind  on  the  problems,  for  he  began  squirming  about  rest- 
lessly in  his  chair. 

"I  think  I  know  enough  to  pull  a  ^  on  that.  Let's  shut 
down.  How  much  do  I  owe  you?"  he  asked,  taking  a 
check  book  from  his  pocket. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  said  Milton. 

"Oh  surely,  surely,"  said  Coddington. 

There  is  nothing  more  insulting  to  a  well-to-do  snob 
than  the  refusal  to  take  money  for  service  rendered  him. 

"No,"  said  Milton,  "this  wasn't  a  business  deal." 

"Well,  then  you'll  let  me  pay  you  in  some  other  way. 
I  once  promised  to  take  you  out  again  after  you  declined 
my  invitation  to  the  theatre.  By  the  way,  have  you  mixed 
any  with  the  fellows  ?" 

"No,  I  have  been  working  over  my  books  ever  since," 
answered  Milton. 

"In  that  same  God-forsaken  garret?" 

"Yes." 

"All  alone — no  roommate?" 

Milton  nodded. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  91 

"I  should  think  you'd  get  damn  tired  of  it.  Do  you 
know,  young  man,  that  you've  made  a  botch  of  your  whole 
undergraduate  life?" 

Milton  looked  up  quickly. 

"Oh,  I  know  you  will  probably  take  every  honor  and 
prize  in  sight — I  know  all  that,  but  what  good  has  it  done 
you?  What  will  you  have  gained  over  me?  Now  that 
you've  helped  me,  I'll  pass  this  exam  tomorrow,  and  get  a 
sheepskin  just  like  yours,  and  what's  more  I'm  leaving  this 
place  knowing  a  whole  lot  of  friends.  You  don't  know  a 
damn  soul  in  your  class.  You  sit  up  there  in  that  con- 
founded loft  of  yours  day  and  night,  buried  between  the 
pages  of  your  book  like  a  worm.  There's  a  heap  more  to 
get  out  of  college  life  aside  from  what  you  get  out  of  books." 

"I've  found  great  pleasure  in  them,"  said  Milton. 

"Pleasure!  you  don't  know  what  pleasure  is.  It's  be- 
cause you  never  had  a  taste  of  real  pleasure  that  you  stick 
to  this  dry  sort  of  time-killer.  Here's  your  senior  year 
almost  over,  and  you  don't  know  what  college  life  means. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  you.  Why 
didn't  you  take  to  tutoring  earlier?  You  would  have  met 
lots  of  fellows  that  way — lazy  cusses  perhaps,  but  good 
sports  and  good  pay.  It's  a  damn  sight  easier  way  to  make 
money  than  by  shoveling  coal  into  a  furnace  or  shoveling 
grub  on  to  a  table.  Great  God!  think  of  it:  all  alone  in 
that  pigeon  hole  of  yours  for  four  years — dead  to  the  world. 
It's  a  wonder  you're  not  rotten.  But  there's  hope  for  you 
yet.    It's  not  too  late ;  put  on  your  hat." 

Coddington's  words  had  a  strange  influence  over  the  boy. 
There  seemed  to  be  much  truth  in  what  he  had  said.  The 
words  charmed  him,  drew  him  irresistibly,  involuntarily, 
unconsciously  toward  the  person  who  had  spoken  them,  and 
he  followed  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  street. 

"Is  it  going  to  be  a  comic  opera?"  asked  Milton  rather 
timidly. 

"No;  the  theatrical  season  is  over,"  answered  Codding- 
ton,  "but  I've  got  something  better  in  store  for  you." 

"What  is  it?" 


92  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

"Fm  going  to  take  you  out  and  introduce  you  to  some 
girls." 

"Girls !"  exclaimed  Milton,  who  had  never  as  much  as 
looked  at  one. 

"Yes ;  you  need  them." 

"My  clothes  aren't  good  enough;  I'm  afraid  they  won't 
care  to  know  me,"  said  Paul. 

He  had  noticed  the  pictures  of  Ruby  Pink  displaying  her 
gorgeous  gowns. 

"Let  me  go  to  my  room  first  and  put  on  another  suit. 
I  am  not  dressed  well  enough  to  be  received  in  the  society 
of  your  friends,"  added  Milton  excitedly. 

"They're  not  going  to  look  at  your  clothes,"  laughed 
Arch. 

The  two  boys  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time. 

"I  shall  feel  embarrassed,"  murmured  Milton,  "I  won't 
know  what  to  say.  Let  me  go  back  and  get  my  violin ;  then 
I  can  play  to  them  instead  of  talking." 

"You  won't  need  your  violin.  There's  a  piano  at  the 
house,  and  one  of  the  girls  can  tear  off  rags  by  the  yard. 
I'm  afraid  they  wouldn't  care  to  listen  to  your  classical  stuff. 
It's  beyond  most  of  us,"  added  Arch,  by  way  of  apology. 

They  had  entered  a  rather  dark  and  forlorn  alley,  and 
continued  to  walk  in  a  direction  from  which  there  came  the 
rattling  and  metallic  twang  of  a  seemingly  ancient  piano, 
badly  in  need  of  tuning  and  repair. 

"They've  begun  to  dance,"  said  Coddington.  "We  are 
just  in  time." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  dance,"  faltered  Milton.  "I  had 
better  not  go  in  with  you." 

"Never  mind;  the  girls  will  not  only  teach  you  how  to 
dance,  but  they'll  teach  you  how  to  do  everything." 

Coddington's  last  remark  opened  Milton's  eyes ;  he  real- 
ized for  the  first  time  that  Coddington  was  planning  a  trick 
and  a  trap.  He  was  about  to  turn  and  leave  him,  but  before 
he  knew  it,  the  tempter -had  opened  a  door  without  ringing 
or  knocking  and  had  pushed  Milton  through  the  opening 
and  closed  it  again. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  93 

"Hang  your  hat  here  on  the  rack,"  said  Arch  impera- 
tively. 

Milton  saw  no  rack.  All  he  could  see  were  several 
couples  whirling  about  in  a  dimly  lighted  room  filled  with 
tobacco  smoke  and  the  deafening  noise  from  a  discarded 
and  neglected,  but  upright  Chickering.  He  imagined  he 
recognized  some  faces  he  had  seen  very  recently — the  faces 
of  ''Red"  Dillinger  and  "Fat"  McCloskey.  He  was  bewild- 
ered. Coddington  had  removed  his  hat  for  him  and  was 
pushing  him  as  far  away  from  the  door  as  possible.  A  pair 
of  dancers  brushed  by  them;  Coddington  seized  the  .man 
by  the  shoulder. 

"You  were  looking  for  a  tutor  to  help  you  out  on  that 
Calculus  exam  next  week,"  said  Arch  to  the  student  whose 
dance  he  had  interrupted.  It  was  Dillinger.  "Well,  here's 
a  fellow  can  put  you  through  like  a  shot." 

And  Coddington  walked  off  with  the  girl  leaving  Milton 
in  the  company  of  ''Red"  Dillinger.  Now  that  Coddington 
had  left  him,  Milton  wanted  to  dash  to  the  door,  seize  his 
hat  and  rush  out;  but  Dillinger  had  hold  of  his  hand  and 
was  speaking  to  him  although  Milton  had  no  idea  what  he 
was  saying. 

"I  met  you  up  at  Coddington's  room  this  evening,"  said 
Dillinger.  "I  suppose  you  don't  remember  me.  Yes ;  I 
need  some  help  in  Calculus.  I've  been  loafing  all  year.  I've 
been  down  here  with  the  girls  several  nights  each  week. 
I've  got  to  get  busy  or  flunk  out — one  or  the  other.  Til 
need  about  six  hours  with  you;  that  will  mean  one  each 
evening  from  now  on  until  the  exam.  You  might  call  at  the 
house  just  as  you  did  with  Coddington  tonight.  I  room 
across  the  hall  from  Coddington  up  at  the  frat  house.  Make 
it  early  in  the  evening — about  seven  thirty.  I  don't  want 
it  to  interfere  with  this  fun." 

Dillinger  kept  on  talking  about  various  things,  but  Mil- 
ton was  not  listening.  He  was  silent,  and  Dillinger's  words 
were  going  in  one  ear  and  out  the  other.  Nevertheless,  Dil- 
linger continued  to  talk,  because  he  thought  the  new  tutor 
was  too  embarrassed  to  say  anything  himself. 


94  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

Coddington  and  the  girl  whom  he  had  taken  from  Dil- 
linger  in  the  dance  were  sitting  on  a  sofa  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room. 

"Will  you  smoke?"  asked  Coddington,  opening  his  cig- 
arette case. 

"I'd  better  not,"  said  the  girl,  as  she  placed  her  hand 
on  her  throat  and  coughed  dryly. 

Arch  lighted  one  for  himself. 

"I'll  just  take  one  puff  of  yours,"  she  added,  changing 
her  mind. 

"I've  brought  you  a  new  customer,"  said  Coddington. 
"He's  never  been  through  the  mill." 

"I  could  tell  he  was  a  freshman  by  the  way  he  come  in," 
said  the  girl. 

"You  get  another  guess — he's  a  senior  like  myself." 

"A  senior !  he  must  be  as  slow  as  a  snail,"  remarked  the 
girl. 

"He's  a  shark.  He  will  probably  pull  all  the  honors, 
but  he  ought  not  to  leave  the  university  without  knowing 
something  about  other  things  too.  He's  an  innocent  virgin 
— poor  chap !  I  want  you  to  break  him  in.  He  refused  to 
take  money  for  tutoring  me  tonight,  and  I  thought  this 
would  be  a  good  way  to  square  up  with  him.  Don't  take 
any  pay  from  him;  I'll  foot  the  bill," 

"Just  leave  it  to  me,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  smile.  "It 
don't  take  me  long  to  make  a  profesh  out  of  a  amateur, 
and  he  will  soon  find  a  way  of  earnin'  money  to  pay  for 
the  second  lesson  himself.    Introduce  me  so  I  can  get  busy." 

Coddington  and  the  girl  crossed  the  floor,  elbowing  their 
way  through  the  dancers  until  they  stood  beside  Milton 
and  Dillinger. 

"Mr.  Milton,  allow  me  to  present  Miss  Stanley." 

The  girl  unhesitatingly  thrust  out  her  warm,  moist  hand, 
the  very  touch  of  which  was  repulsive  to  Paul  Milton. 

"I  am  happy  to  see  you  here,"  she  said,  as  the  shadow 
of  a  smile  passed  over  her  pale,  thin  face. 

"Miss  Stanley  will  be  only  too  glad  to  teach  you  some 
of  the  new  dances,  Paul,"  said  Coddington  famiharly. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  95 

"Yes,"  added  the  girl,"  the  steps  are  rather  tricky  at 
first,  but  it  don't  take  long  to  get  next  to  them.  Turkey 
trot,  tango,  hesitation — we  do  them  all.  Which  one  would 
you  like  to  start  with  ?" 

Milton  was  not  listening  to  the  girl.  Coddington  and 
Dillinger  had  both  deserted  him;  they  had  found  partners 
and  had  disappeared  in  the  whirling  nebula. 

"It  won't  be  long  until  you  can  dance  as  well  as  them," 
continued  the  girl. 

"I  don't  care  to  dance,"  he  faltered.  "I  would  rather 
not." 

"Oh,  don't  be  a  fogy.    Get  the  habit.    Come  along." 

In  an  instant  she  seized  him  in  her  arms,  and  he  soon 
found  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  floor — a  part  of  that 
dizzy  revolving  mass.  Eyes  flashed  past  him.  Once  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Coddington  and  noticed  that  he  was 
grinning  diabolically.  But  soon  the  faces  were  no  longer 
distinguishable.  His  head  was  spinning,  and  he  could  not 
see.  Miss  Stanley  was  drawing  him  closer  and  closer  to 
her  twisting  and  squirming  body.  She  seemed  to  be  wrap- 
ping herself  about  him,  thrusting  her  knee  between  his  legs. 
At  times  she  threw  him  to  the  right,  to  the  left,  pulled  him 
forward,  then  pushed  him  backward,  with  unnatural 
strength  until  she  finally  became  exhausted,  and  he  felt  her 
hot  breath  beat  upon  his  cheek  in  short,  quick  puflfs. 

"Shall  we  go  upstairs  now?"  she  panted. 

"Yes,  yes;  for  God's  sake  yes,"  he  gasped,  "any  place 
but  here." 

She  dashed  wildly  up  the  steps,  he  pursuing  her.  There 
was  a  pair  of  invisible  hands  shoving  him  along ;  there  was 
that  same  inaudible  voice  crying  in  his  ear:  "Follow  her; 
follow  her." 

Coddington  saw  them  vanish  on  the  landing.  Just  then 
DiUinger  danced  past  him. 

"She  knows  her  game  all  right,"  said  Coddington;  and 
Dillinger  winked  and  smiled. 

The  girl  had  rushed  into  a  room  on  the  second  floor  and 
thrown  herself  upon  the  bed,  her  strange  hollow  eyes  star- 


96  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

ing  at  Milton,  who  had  followed  her  there  and  closed  the 
door,  standing  with  his  back  against  it. 

"I'm  too  tired  to  undress,"  she  panted. 

"To  undress  !"  he  exclaimed.    "What  do  you  mean  ?" 

She  sat  up  on  the  bed,  eyeing  him  wildly. 

"That's  what  we're  here  for;  ain't  it?" 

''Not  I,"  he  answered  with  firmness. 

"All  that  exertion  for  nothin' !" 

"Yes;  all  for  nothing,"  he  repeated. 

"Good  God!  ain't  you  discovered  yet  that  you're  a  man? 
Do  you  expect  to  be  a  baby  all  your  life?"  she  inquired 
mockingly.  "If  so,  then  get  the  hell  out  of  here,  and  I'll 
go  downstairs  and  get  a  grown-up.  When  I'm  worked  up 
to  this  point,  I've  got  to  go  further." 

She  staggered  to  the  door,  but  he  would  not  let  her  pass. 

"Don't  leave  me,"  he  pleaded.     "Please  don't." 

She  smiled  and  returned  to  the  bed. 

"Oh !  you've  changed  your  mind.  You  was  only  bluffin' 
— only  teasin'  me.    Come  on ;  don't  waste  so  much  time." 

She  seized  his  arm  and  pulled  him  to  the  pillow. 

"My  God!"  he  stammered,  "don't  say  that.  I  couldn't 
do  such  a  thing ;  I  couldn't." 

He  recalled  what  his  mother  had  told  him;  that  the 
desire  would  sooner  or  later  awaken — that  he  should  learn 
to  work  hard  and  master  it.  But  it  required  no  effort  to 
master  it  here.  This  girl  had  even  failed  to  awaken  it.  She 
stifled  it — smothered  it  the  moment  she  had  touched  him 
with  her  warm,  moist  hand  earher  in  the  evening.  To  him 
she  was  an  object  of  pity ;  it  was  not  passion  but  compassion 
which  she  had  aroused  in  Paul  Milton. 

"Ain't  it  in  you?"  she  asked. 

"It  should  be  in  all  men,  but  I  have  not  yet  earned  the 
gratification — and  furthermore,  you  are  not  mine,"  said  Paul. 

"I  am  yours  as  much  as  I  am  theirs — them  fellows 
downstairs." 

"No,"  he  said,  "if  you  were  mine  you  wouldn't  be  theirs, 
because  I  would  guard  you — I  believe  I — I'd  kill  them,"  he 
affirmed,  with  a  tremor. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  97 

She  looked  at  him  in  admiration. 

"If  only  he  had  felt  as  you  do,"  she  whispered  sadly. 

"Who?"  asked  Milton. 

"Tom  Kuhler,"  responded  the  girl,  her  voice  quivering 
when  she  mentioned  the  name — a  name  which  startled  Paul 
Milton. 

"Tom  Kuhler !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes ;  he  started  me  on  this  path — this  road  to  ruin,  as 
they  call  it.  You  must  have  heard  of  him — the  whole  world 
knows  of  him.    You  ain't  that  slow." 

"I  know  of  him,"  said  Paul.  "You  mean  the  big  foot- 
ball hero?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  one.  He  founded  this  here  establish- 
ment the  same  day  he  won  that  big  game  for  the  university. 
Did  you  see  that  game?" 

Milton  nodded  reluctantly. 

"So  did  I,  but  sometimes  I  wish  I  hadn't.  I  went  wild 
over  Kuhler  that  day.  He  won  my  heart,  soul,  body,  every- 
thing— all  at  once — ^that  quick."  She  snapped  her  fingers. 
"Some  girls  can  hold  back ;  I  can't.  I  would  have  throwed 
myself  at  his  feet,  then  and  there,  and  allowed  him  to  walk 
over  me.  But  he  was  wonderful,  wasn't  he?  It  was  a 
great  game,  and  he  played  it  all.  I  don't  see  how  any  one 
could  keep  from  goin'  crazy  when  that  man  was  on  the 
field.  There  was  a  gloomy  guy  sittin'  next  to  me  that  after- 
noon who  seemed  bored  to  death,  and  when  Kuhler  made 
that  long  run,  smashin'  through  the  line,  I  took  that  gloomy 
guy  in  my  arms  and  tried  to  wake  him  up.  I  hugged  him 
just  Hke  I  wanted  to  hug  Tom  Kuhler." 

Milton  was  silent,  but  he  realized  at  once  that  the 
strange  pale  creature  who  was  sitting  beside  him  on  the  bed 
was  no  other  than  the  white  plume — the  tail  of  the  serpent 
of  victory.  But  the  plume  was  no  longer  white ;  it  had  been 
dragged  through  mud  and  muck  and  had  been  torn  and 
pounded  by  a  score  of  beastly  men — trampled  under  the  feet 
of  that  gigantic  centipede  of  which  it  had  also  been  a  part. 

"After  the  game,"  continued  the  girl,  "I  danced  down 
the  field  like  mad.     I  just  couldn't  help  it:   Kuhler  was  so 


98  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

grand.  And  then  I  rubbered  through  the  window  at  the 
place  where  the  team  had  a  banquet  that  night.  Kuhler  sat 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  Gee,  but  he  did  look  great.  Hand- 
some's  no  word  for  it.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  meet  him 
or  die.  I  waited  almost  two  hours  on  the  sidewalk.  Millie 
Gray  was  there  with  me  tryin'  to  pull  me  away,  but  she 
couldn't  budge  me. 

"Well,  Kuhler  finally  come  out.  He  was  pretty  well 
soaked,  but  that  didn't  cut  any  ice  with  me.  I  loved  him 
more  than  ever,  and  I  whistled  at  him  when  he  went  by. 
He  come  over  to  the  curb,  chucked  me  under  the  chin,  and 
took  me  'round  the  waist — it  was  great  I  tell  you.  We 
walked  down  the  street  together — Millie  on  his  left  arm,  me 
on  his  right.  Millie  was  afraid  we  might  do  something  ter- 
rible, and  we  did  too.  At  least  we  thought  it  was  terrible 
then ;  we  don't  now.    But  I'm  gettin'  ahead  of  my  story. 

"We  picked  up  another  sport  along  the  way — Arch  Cod- 
dington — the  fellow  that  fetched  you  here  tonight." 

The  girl  stopped  for  an  instant  in  her  narrative,  think- 
ing that  Milton  might  make  a  remark  or  two.  He  said 
nothing.    Her  throat  was  drying  up,  but  she  went  on. 

"Kuhler  got  Arch  for  Millie.  The  four  of  us  started 
home.  My  mother  and  me  lived  all  alone  in  that  little  shanty 
over  there  across  the  street." 

She  glanced  out  the  window ;  there  was  a  small  light 
burning  in  the  dilapidated  house  she  had  referred  to. 

"I  was  a  cash  girl  in  the  department  store.  I  supported 
the  whole  family — mother  and  myself.  Mother  was  away 
that  night.  She  had  went  up  to  the  country  on  a  visit,  and 
had  told  Millie  to  stay  with  me  so  I  wouldn't  be  alone.  1 
got  out  our  best  china,  and  I  sent  Millie  to  the  baker  shop 
to  buy  some  cream  puffs  while  I  made  the  lemonade;  I 
was  goin'  to  have  a  little  spread  for  the  four  of  us.  But 
Kuhler  didn't  even  look  at  the  cream  puffs  and  the  lemon- 
ade— he  was  sweatin'  wine.  He  said  he  wanted  something 
else.  Millie  got  frightened  and  run  home.  Arch  said  thai 
two  was  company  and  three  a  crowd,  so  he  left  also  and 
followed  Millie.    But  he  didn't  get  her  'round  to  it  until  a 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  99 

week  later,  but  he  did  get  her  all  right  all  right.  She  didn't 
escape;  her  initiation  was  only  postponed,  don't  you  know. 
But  she  was  lucky  enough  not  to  get  into  any  trouble  over 
it  Hke  I  did.  Millie  had  deserted  me,  but  I  had  found  an- 
other protector — Kuhler  stayed  with  me  till  morning.  You 
remember  it  was  reported  that  he  killed  the  boy  who  was 
carried  off  the  field  that  afternoon — well,  he  filled  up  the 
vacancy  by  makin'  another  one  that  night. 

"So  our  family  of  two  was  increased  by  one.  Mother 
and  Tom  Kuhler  Junior  still  live  over  there  in  the  shanty, 
and  I  support  them — ^but  I  ain't  no  cash  girl  no  more.  When 
the  department  store  got  next  to  it  that  I  was  goin'  to 
have  a  kid,  they  throwed  me  out,  and  no  other  firm  would 
take  me  in.  So  I  decided  to  start  up  a  firm  of  my  own. 
This  is  it.  Millie  helped  me  to  get  some  other  girls — we 
found  lots  of  them  in  the  street  who  were  only  too  glad 
to  find  a  home  and  a  bed  of  their  own,  but  to  work  on 
commission.  Millie  ain't  in  tonight ;  she's  out  on  an  errand 
— out  at  some  student's  room.  He's  a  sly  stude,  I  tell  you. 
His  father  and  mother  got  next  to  his  comin'  here,  and 
they've  hired  a  private  detective  to  keep  an  eye  on  this  joint 
in  case  their  little  boy  went  at  it  again,  but  the  joke's  on 
the  detective — Millie  goes  'round  to  call  on  their  son  instead 
of  the  bube  comin'  to  her,  and  she  gets  double  price  for 
doin'  it. 

"But  we  do  most  of  our  work  right  here.  This  is  our 
third  year  at  the  business.  I  bet  there  ain't  another  joint 
in  the  neighborhood  takes  in  as  much  money  as  we  do.  Our 
customers  are  all  students.  Students  are  good  pay.  They'd 
rather  give  us  their  room  rent  than  pay  it  to  their  landlords. 
When  the  boys  bring  in  a  new  one  who  hasn't  the  coin,  one 
of  the  old  customers  foots  the  bill  for  the  initiation.  Arch 
Coddington  told  me  in  advance  that  he  was  goin'  to  square 
up  with  me  for  yours,  to  pay  you  back  for  the  tutorin'  you 
done  tonight.  But  it  looks  as  though  there'll  be  nothin' 
doin',  so  I  won't  take  the  money  from  him  when  he  offers 
it  to  me.  I'm  honest  in  a  sort  of  a  way — I  ain't  goin'  to 
take  money  to  raise  Tom  Kuhler's  boy  without  givin'  or 


100  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

doin'  something  in  return  for  it.  I  still  have  a  warm  spot 
for  Tom,  but  I  guess  he's  forgot  all  about  me.  He  had  a 
swell  girl  up  here  for  the  prom  that  year.  She  came  all 
the  way  from  Cincinnati,  and  wore  a  dark  blue  satin — I 
read  about  it  in  the  newspaper.  I've  heard  since  that  Tom's 
got  married  to  her  and  has  a  boy  of  his  own;  Arch  Cod- 
dington  told  me.  Tom  and  Arch  belong  to  the  same  frat. 
I  know  all  the  boys  that  live  up  there  this  year.  They're 
the  fastest  gang  in  the  university.  They  seem  to  inherit 
that  rep  from  year  to  year.  When  a  fellow  gets  in  with 
that  bunch  it's  good-bye  to  his  virginity.  It's  too  bad  they 
didn't  get  hold  of  you  a  little  earlier;  I  might  have  been 
more  successful  with  you.  A  girl  needs  lots  of  money  when 
she's  got  to  support  her  mother  and  her  son." 

Milton  had  listened  to  every  word  of  the  girl's  story, 
which  now  seemed  indelibly  recorded  on  his  mind.  When 
she  had  finished  relating  it,  he  took  a  purse  from  his  pocket, 
opened  it,  and  pressed  a  two-dollar  bill  into  her  palm.  She 
looked  at  him  strangely  and  incredulously. 

"That's  for  Tom  Kuhler  Junior,"  he  said,  as  he  held 
her  hand  with  a  manly  grasp.    "Good  night." 

Then  he  left  the  room,  closed  the  door  softly,  and  de- 
scended the  stairs.  There  was  a  large  lump  in  his  throat 
that  he  could  not  swallow,  and  big  tears  were  standing  in 
his  eyes.  Coddington  saw  him  and  noticed  that  he  was 
weeping. 

*Tt  does  hurt  our  conscience  a  little,  after  we  go  through 
it  the  first  time ;  but  you'll  soon  get  over  that." 

Coddington  patted  Milton  on  the  back.  Milton  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  correct  the  false  impression  made  by 
his  absence;  he  knew  May  Stanley  would  refuse  to  take 
Coddington's  money,  and  that  would  explain  all.  So  he 
walked  to  the  rack  in  silence  for  his  hat  and  stepped  into 
the  street. 

The  little  light  was  still  burning  in  the  shanty  on  the 
other  side.  As  he  walked  away,  he  heard  the  music  cease 
abruptly,  but  the  silence  which  had  ensued  was  soon  broken 
by  a  tempest  of  laughter,  as  though  some  one  had  related 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  loi 

a  very,  very,  funny  story.    Then  the  twangy  old  piano  was 
started  again,  and  the  dancing  resumed. 

Who  was  it  that  related  the  funny  story?  It  was  not 
May  Stanley ;  she  was  still  lying  on  her  bed — sobbing.  She 
had  never  even  dreamed  of  meeting  another  man;  she  had 
long  ago  concluded  they  were  all  beasts. 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE    WATCHDOG 


Shortly  after  Milton  left  the  house,  it  began  to  rain — 
a  light,  drizzling  rain  similar  to  that  which  had  fallen  over 
the  silent  gridiron  after  the  serpent  of  victory  had  deserted 
it.  On  that  memorable  evening,  Milton  had  walked  home 
through  the  rain,  lost  in  meditation ;  he  was  walking  through 
the  rain  now — lost  again.  He  was  glad  he  had  not  noticed 
by  what  route  Coddington  had  reached  the  house  of  com- 
mercialized vice.  He  closed  his  eyes  as  he  wandered  and 
wandered,  so  that  he  might  never  know  how  to  return. 
There  was  one  thing  May  Stanley  had  said,  which  was  ring- 
ing clamorously  in  his  ears : 

"Tom  Kuhler  founded  this  establishment  the  same  day 
he  won  that  big  football  victory  for  the  university." 

The  picture  of  the  serpent  came  back  to  his  mind  even 
more  vividly  than  it  had  appeared  originally.  He  imagined 
he  saw  it  creeping  at  his  side  through  the  mud  in  the  gutter. 
He  saw  Kuhler  at  the  head  of  it ;  he  heard  the  mad  cheers 
and  the  brass  band.  He  saw  the  white  plume  at  the  end  of  it ; 
she  appeared  more  prominent  now.  At  times  the  band  would 
cease  playing,  but  he  could  still  hear  a  twangy  piano,  to  the 
music  of  which  the  girl  continued  to  dance  sensually  and 
breathlessly,  alternately  waving  the  plume  above  her  head 
and  then  dragging  it  through  the  mud  and  slime.  He  under- 
stood now  why  she  belonged  there,  strange  as  her  actions  ap- 
peared that  afternoon.  It  was  this  girl  who  had  clasped  him 
in  her  arms  to  awaken  his  spirit  to  the  glories  of  football. 
It  was  this  same  girl  who  pressed  him  toward  her  emaciated 
body  to  excite  him  for  another  diversion  of  the  flesh.  She 
had  utterly  failed  to  arouse  him  either  time. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  103 

She  had  failed  to  arouse  his  enthusiasm  in  the  two  pleas- 
ures Kuhler  had  established.  One  of  these  was  recognized 
officially  by  the  faculty;  the  other  was  ignored  by  them. 
Nevertheless,  did  not  May  Stanley  say  her  trade  was  re- 
stricted to  students  only?  Was  not  this  also  a  department 
of  the  university?  Unadvertised,  unofficial,  secret  perhaps, 
but  nevertheless  a  department,  and  Tom  Kuhler  was  at  the 
source  of  it.  Wonderful  Tom  Kuhler  whose  name  had 
been  flashed  across  the  country  from  one  end  to  the  other! 
Tom  Kuhler,  who  had  won  such  fame  for  his  Alma  Mater ! 
Fame?  And  this  was  the  god  and  hero  whom  the  alumni 
had  worshiped — this  was  the  type  of  man  they  wanted!  A 
Butcher  and  Profligate ! 

Ah  yes ;  there  were  other  things  left  in  the  path  of  vic- 
tory, things  not  only  Paul  Milton  but  also  the  populace  never 
saw.  There  were  the  well-known  wrecks  of  the  Dining 
Hall  and  of  the  theatre,  but  both  of  these  could  be  restored. 
There  was  a  death,  and  there  were  several  injuries  at  the 
field ;  these  injuries  might  ruin  the  health  of  those  who  had 
received  them,  but  their  effects  would  go  no  farther.  Here, 
however,  a  blacker  and  more  lasting  ignominy  was  left  in  the 
trail  of  the  serpent.  Here  was  a  house  which  bred  and  spread 
disease — disease  which  would  be  passed  on,  transmitted  to 
each  incoming  class  at  the  university — disease  which  would 
mar  the  faces,  deform  the  bodies  and  derange  the  minds  of 
the  students — disease  which  they  would  pass  on  to  their  inno- 
cent children.  Onward,  onward  thou  victorious  serpent! 
Onward,  leaving  not  only  crippled  athletes  but  also  crippled 
babes  creeping  helplessly  and  perhaps  blindly  in  thy  path ! 

Paul  Milton,  consumed  by  such  thoughts,  found  himself 
standing  before  Mr.  Sweeny's  house.  He  walked  up  the 
steps  and  rang  the  bell. 

Mr.  Sweeny  himself  answered  it. 

"What's  the  matter?  It's  something  new  for  you  not 
to  be  able  to  find  the  keyhole." 

"I  forgot  my  key,"  explained  Milton. 

The  landlord  snickered,  and  took  a  bite  from  the  greasy 
chop  in  his  hairy,  paw-like  hand. 


104  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

"You're  just  the  man  Fm  lookin'  for,"  said  Sweeny.  "I 
want  you  for  a  witness.     Step  right  in  here." 

The  front  room  was  open.  It  was  dark  within ;  we  had 
observed  that  it  was  always  so.  Milton  entered;  the  land- 
lord followed,  closing  the  door. 

"Set  down,"  said  Sweeny. 

Milton  managed  to  find  a  chair  in  the  darkness.  The 
landlord  sat  in  a  rocker  at  his  side. 

"Do  you  see  that  there  hght  ?"  he  began,  pointing  across 
the  street  with  the  bone  of  his  chop. 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul,  as  he  drew  aside  the  lace  curtain 
to  get  a  better  view. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Sweeny,  quickly,  rearranging  the 
window.    "We  don't  want  them  to  see  us." 

"Who?"  asked  Milton. 

"The  students,"  answered  the  landlord.  "They're  in 
the  room  on  the  first  floor.  The  light  on  the  second  floor  is 
in  the  landlady's  room.  Miss  Clarabelle  Jones.  You  must 
have  heard  the  fellows  talk  about  her.  She  claims  her 
roomers  are  the  most  upright  students  in  the  university. 
She  won't  rent  rooms  to  bad  boys." 

The  landlord's  snicker  sounded  like  the  chuckle  of  a 
fiend  hidden  somewhere  in  the  darkness. 

"They  buy  her  all  sorts  of  presents;  her  students  do. 
They've  give  her  so  much  candy  it's  a  wonder  her  teeth 
ain't  rotten — but  I  reckon  they're  false  teeth.  She's  old 
enough  to  be  their  mother.  She  loves  them  students  as  if 
they  was  her  own  children,  so  she  says,  and  she  won't  let 
nobody  say  a  word  against  them." 

"Well,"  continued  the  landlord,  "all  the  people  who  rent 
rooms  to  students  here  in  the  neighborhood  have  agreed 
to  keep  an  eye  on  one  another's  houses  and  to  report  any 
tricks  which  the  students  are  up  to.  Miss  Jones,  however, 
wouldn't  join  the  pack  of  spies — as  she  calls  us.  She  says 
students  don't  have  to  be  watched ;  they  are  perfect  angels." 

Sweeny  laughed  so  boisterously  that  he  woke  his  \vife, 
who  was  sleeping  in  the  rear  of  the  room;  but  she  soon 
turned  over  again  and  began  to  snore. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  105 

"Is  there  some  one  else  in  the  room  with  us?"  asked 
Milton,  uneasily. 

"Only  the  cook,"  said  Sweeny.  "Her  bed's  back  there 
in  the  corner." 

Milton  felt  strangely  out  of  place. 

"You  probably  know  that  the  buildin'  to  the  right  is 
an  old  folks'  home.  Perhaps  you  seen  the  old  women  settin' 
at  their  windows  in  the  mornin' — the  windows  with  potted 
plants  on  the  sills.  Old  women  like  potted  plants ;  they  set 
behind  them  like  cats  watchin'  for  mice.  When  a  student 
breaks  one  of  my  windows  with  a  snowball  or  baseball, 
the  old  women  always  report  the  right  man  to  me;  they 
remember  him  by  his  hat  or  the  color  of  his  tie.  But  there 
is  more  doin'  at  night  than  at  day,  so  the  old  hens  are  not 
much  account  after  all  for  they  go  to  roost  as  soon  as  the 
sun  sets." 

The  landlord's  language  was  painful  to  Milton.  He 
hated  such  discourtesy.  However,  he  kept  silent.  He  de- 
cided it  was  his  duty  to  listen.  The  inaudible  voice  was 
telling  him  to  remain.  His  ears  in  fact  were  becoming  ac- 
customed to  slang  and  slander.  He  was  wondering  if  he 
must  listen  to  vulgar  and  disagreeable  reports  the  whole 
night  long. 

"After  sundown,"  continued  the  landlord,  "we  have  to 
get  busy  ourselves.  This  is  my  watchtower.  I  ain't  had  a 
light  in  this  room  for  the  last  five  years,  and  I  didn't  rent 
it  out  either,  even  though  I  could  have  got  a  big  price  for 
it.  I  see  somethin'  from  this  window  almost  every  night — 
students  drunk  on  the  curb,  or  walkin'  by  with  hussies. 
They  call  me  the  watchdog.  You  know  young  Coddington 
who  used  to  room  upstairs  when  you  was  a  freshman?  He 
give  me  that  name  one  night  when  Tom  Kuhler,  that  big 
football  player,  was  standin'  out  here  on  the  side  walk  with 
two  girls,  tryin'  to  sneak  them  up  to  Coddington's  room. 
There'd  have  been  a  gay  time  in  that  room  that  night  if  I 
hadn't  been  on  duty.  I  wouldn't  put  anything  past  that 
man  Coddington;  he's  the  wildest  and  the  sleekest  stude  in 
the  whole  university." 


io6  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

Milton  realized  immediately  that  the  two  girls  referred 
to  were  May  Stanley  and  Millie  Gray. 

"Tonight,"  said  the  watchdog,  "I  saw  Clarabelle's  'per- 
fect angels'  take  a  girl  in  through  the  window." 

Milton's  head  began  to  ache.  He  wanted  to  hear  no 
more ;  he  had  already  heard  and  seen  too  much.  He  wanted 
rest  and  sleep,  but  alas!  rest  and  sleep  were  not  for  him. 
"Look  and  listen,"  the  inaudible  voice  kept  saying.  It  was 
the  same  voice  which  had  been  guiding  him  and  ringing  in 
his  ears  all  evening. 

"I  called  Clarabelle  up  on  the  telephone,"  continued 
Sweeny.  "She  said  it  was  impossible  that  her  boys  should 
do  such  a  thing  but  that  she  would  go  downstairs  and  make 
sure.  She  had  already  went  to  bed.  She  got  up  and  dressed ; 
that's  why  there's  a  light  in  her  room.  Notice  that  patch  of 
light  which  her  lamp  throws  on  the  wall  of  the  old  folks' 
home.  As  soon  as  the  students  saw  that,  they  got  wise  and 
hid  the  girl  behind  their  piano.  There's  Clarabelle  in  her 
kimono ;  she's  back  in  her  room  again.    Ain't  she  a  bird  ?" 

A  bell  sounded  sharply  in  the  darkness. 

"Is  that  the  alarm  clock  for  to  get  up  and  cook  break- 
fast?" asked  Mrs.  Sweeny. 

"No,  darling ;  it's  only  the  telephone,"  said  the  landlord. 

"Thank  Heavens,"  groaned  the  cook,  and  she  fell  asleep 
again. 

Sweeny,  whose  eyes  seemed  more  useful  in  darkness 
than  in  light,  walked  directly  to  the  telephone  on  the  man- 
telpiece, and  answered  the  call. 

"Hello !    Yes,  this  is  Sweeny All  right, 

Fm  sorry  I  disturbed  you." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  returned  to  his  post. 

"She  said  she  went  downstairs  and  couldn't  find  a  trace 
of  a  girl.  All  the  students  were  studyin'  their  lessons.  She 
asked  me  to  please  not  disturb  her  sleep  no  more  by  false 
reports." 

The  watchdog  then  rocked  back  and  forward,  restlessly 
awaiting  the  move  which  would  prove  that  Miss  Jones  was 
wrong. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  107 

"There!"  uttered  Sweeny  explosively.  ''She's  turned 
out  her  lamp,  and  she's  goin'  back  to  bed.  The  patch  of 
light  on  the  wall  has  gone  too — that  means  to  the  students 
that  the  way  is  clear.    Now  watch  close." 

Sweeny  was  silent  and  motionless  like  a  hound,  which 
has  scented  a  bird  in  a  bush.  A  student  appeared  at  one 
of  the  windows.  He  opened  it,  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  street.  Then  the  light  in  that  room  was  also  extin- 
guished, and  a  dark  mass  was  lowered  from  the  sill.  It 
rested  a  moment  on  the  iron  fence,  which  was  very  close 
to  the  wall,  and  then  hopped  to  the  ground  and  took  flight 
like  a  bat.  That  dark  mass  was  none  other  than  Millie 
Gray  on  the  "errand"  which  May  Stanley  had  described 
to  Paul  Milton. 

Hardly  had  the  girl  disappeared  round  the  corner  when 
the  student's  room  was  again  lighted,  and  some  one  began 
playing  the  piano  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  The 
music  was  just  as  twangy  as  that  Milton  had  heard  at  May 
Stanley's  establishment,  and  it  recalled  all  he  had  heard 
from  the  white  plume,  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"Now  you  see  what  kind  of  angels  Miss  Jones  keeps  in 
her  house,"  said  the  watchdog,  "and  that's  the  way  with  all 
students  whether  they  stay  with  Miss  Jones  ,or  with  me. 
I  wouldn't  trust  one  of  them.  They're  a  rotten  bunch. 
They  try  to  skip  the  town  without  payin'  me  rent,  and  they 
would  turn  every  dormitory  on  the  street  into  a  whore 
house  if  they  got  a  ghost  of  a  chance.  This  town  is  flooded 
every  year  by  a  swarm  of  chips,  who  float  around  the  sea- 
shore resorts  in  the  summer  time,  and  drift  back  to  the 
college  in  the  fall.  They  are  a  part  of  the  university  just 
as  much  as  the  faculty  are,  and  they  give  the  most  popular 
courses  too.  Universities  are  hell — that's  wTiat  they  are. 
Some  one  ought  to  sweep  them  out  with  a  broom ;  they  need 
it.  All  the  students  come  here  for  is  to  wear  out  their 
lungs  at  the  football  games  and  wear  out  something  else 
on  these  street  rats.  You  have  no  idea  what's  goin'  on 
about  you,  Milton.  You  squat  up  there  in  that  garret  of 
yours  rubbin'  a  horse's  tail  over  a  cat's  gut,  and  the  noise 


io8  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

you  get  out  of  it  puts  you  to  sleep.  You're  always  dreamin' ; 
you  don't  hear  or  see  nothing  but  that  blamed  old  fiddle. 
Here  you  are  graduatin'  with  honors,  I  suppose,  and  you 
don't  know  a  damn." 

Paul  could  listen  to  no  more;  he  arose  and  staggered 
from  the  room. 

"Happy  dreams,"  said  the  watchdog,  sucking  the  bone 
from  which  he  had  gnawed  the  last  shred  of  meat. 

When  Milton  reached  his  room,  he  threw  himself  upon 
the  bed  and  remained  there  for  some  time  silent  and  mo- 
tionless. It  was  dark.  Had  he  fallen  asleep?  No;  his 
head  was  hot  with  thought,  and  his  brain  seemed  to  be 
melting  within  it. 

The  things  which  he  had  seen  and  heard  kept  parading 
through  his  mind.  Was  it  so  that  the  men  among  whom  he 
lived  were  so  putrid?  Was  it  true  that  the  students  of 
the  university,  his  classmates,  were  so  low?  Were  they 
as  rank  as  this  dog  had  described  them?  He  could  not  be- 
lieve it,  although  he  had  seen  it  with  his  own  eyes  and 
heard  it  with  his  own  ears,  though  involuntarily.  The 
inaudible  voice  had  forced  him  to  act  against  his  will.  Why 
had  all  this  come  to  him  without  his  wanting  to  know  it? 
Was  it  Providence  pointing  the  way  and  showing  him  his 
duty  ?  Then  he  seemed  to  hear  again  the  remark  of  the  land- 
lord :  "Here  you  are  graduating  with  honors,  and  you  don't 
know  a  damn."  Was  there  truth  in  that  statement  ?  Was  it 
so  that  what  he  had  learned  from  his  books  was  all  worth- 
less ?  What  good  was  all  this  stuff  ?  Perhaps  Coddington  was 
right.  Geometry,  French,  German,  Chemistry,  Physics, 
everything,  all  put  together — what  did  they  amount  to  com- 
pared with  what  he  had  learned  this  evening?  Here  was  a 
community  of  several  thousand  students  going  straight  to 
perdition.  They  needed  some  one  to  come  to  their  rescue,  to 
drag  them  out  of  the  quagmire  into  which  they  were  help- 
lessly sinking.  "The  university  should  be  swept  out  with  a 
broom."  Should  he — Paul  Milton — lay  aside  his  books  and 
take  up  that  broom  ?  Was  not  this  "the  good  and  great  pur- 
pose" to  which  his  mother  had  referred — the  purpose  for 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  109 

which  he  had  left  her.  But  was  it  Providence,  or  was  it 
merely  the  landlord?  He  began  to  toss  about  restlessly. 
Perhaps  after  all,  it  was  only  the  false  and  blatant  alarm 
of  the  watchdog  which  had  awakened  him  in  his  harmonious 
heaven.  Coddington  had  named  Sweeny  rightly,  for  he 
did  nothing  but  snarl,  snarl,  snarl.  Just  because  a  student 
or  two  had  cheated  him  of  his  rent,  he  formed  the  opinion 
that  they  were  all  sneaks  and  robbers.  He  was  merely 
seeking  revenge,  not  justice.  He  exaggerated  and  magni- 
fied everything.  He  was  disgracing  the  institution  by  his 
groundless  reports  and  his  incessant  barking.  The  univer- 
sity was  a  clean  community.  There  were  in  it,  as  there  are 
in  all  communities,  a  few  sneaks,  a  few  gamblers,  a  few 
profligates,  but  only  a  few;  for  the  majority — and  a  great 
majority  too — of  the  students  were  honest,  upright  and 
studious.  He  felt  a  certain  hatred  growing  within  him — 
a  hatred  for  this  dog  who  was  scheming  to  give  him  such 
vile  impressions — this  dog  who  wanted  him  to  believe  that 
all  the  other  landlords  and  ladies  in  the  neighborhood  were 
also  spies  as  corrupt  as  himself.  It  was  basely  false;  it 
was  rank  from  beginning  to  end.  It  was  nothing  but  gossip 
and  slander.  It  was  disgracing  his  Alma  Mater — his  Alma 
Mater  for  whom  he  had  studied  so  loyally.  He  could  not 
live  in  such  an  atmosphere.  He  began  to  despise  his  own 
room,  for  he  imagined  it  to  be  contaminated  by  the  stench 
from  the  watchdog's  kennel.  How  he  wished  that  he  had 
been  fortunate  enough  to  have  found  a  room  across  the 
street  when  he  first  came  to  the  university — a  room  in  Miss 
Jones'  house!  Then  this  foul  report  would  never  have 
reached  his  ears — this  report  which  came  at  the  very  end 
of  his  senior  year  to  mar  the  memory  of  the  four  happy 
years  he  had  spent  among  his  books.  What  a  mean  hound 
this  Sweeny  was  to  spoil  everything!  Just  because  he  had 
seen  a  girl  taken  in  through  a  window  and  lowered  to  the 
street  from  that  same  window,  he  concluded  that  the  whole 
community  was  invaded  by  prostitutes.  What  rank  false- 
hood! There  wasn't  even  a  grain  of  truth  in  it.  Then  he 
suddenly  imagined  that  some  one  lay  beside  him  on  the 


no  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

bed — a  pair  of  strange  hollow  eyes  glaring  from  his  pillow 
— eyes  that  contradicted  his  thoughts.  He  closed  his  own 
to  avoid  their  stare,  but  by  so  doing  he  could  not  avoid 
the  hot  breath,  which  was  beating  against  his  cheek.  May 
Stanley  was  whirling  him  round  and  round  again  trying 
to  excite  his  passion,  trying  to  drag  him  to  ruin.  A  cold 
sweat  stood  on  his  forehead.  He  thanked  God  that  he  had 
been  able  to  resist  her.  The  fact  that  he  had  escaped  made 
him  happy,  because  it  led  him  to  believe  that  other  students 
had  also  escaped  from  a  similar  struggle.  Yes;  it  was 
true  that  Tom  Kuhler  had  founded  this  establishment;  it 
was  true  that  the  community  was  invaded  by  prostitute 
women.  The  landlord  was  right  to  a  certain  degree — for 
May  Stanley  herself  had  found  many  of  them  on  the 
street ;  she  also  had  said  there  were  several  other  houses  in 
the  neighborhood.  Yes;  this  was  all  true  enough.  And 
that  these  girls  were  trying  to  ensnare  the  students  was 
also  true.  Ah!  but  they  did  not  always  succeed.  The 
students  went  there  to  dance,  just  as  he  had  done  and  to 
enjoy  themselves  in  a  decent  manner,  and  that  was  all. 
He  was  not  the  only  man  in  the  university  strong  enough 
to  resist  temptation;  he  was  not  so  conceited  as  to  believe 
that.  Of  course  he  had  seen  other  students  whirling  about 
indecently  in  the  dance,  but  had  they  also  not  seen  him? 
He  even  saw  them  ascend  to  the  bedrooms  above ;  but  what 
of  that?  Had  he  not  done  the  same  thing?  He  had  frus- 
trated the  designs  of  this  pale  creature;  so  had  the  others. 
Yes;  it  all  looked  very  wicked  on  the  surface — but  that 
was  all.  The  majority  of  students  were  straight  and  hon- 
orable, however  wicked  they  appeared  and  however  black 
the  watchdog  had  painted  them.  Of  that  he  was  confident. 
This  Stanley  girl — she  tried  hard  to  get  their  trade,  to  win 
them  over ;  she  was  a  frightful  hussy.  A  new  hatred  began 
to  develop — a  hatred  for  May  Stanley.  It  was  she  who 
was  disgracing  the  university.  But  suppose  he,  Paul  Mil- 
ton, had  a  sister — a  sister  whom  he  loved  as  dearly  as  his 
mother  at  Nor  ford.  What  if  she  had  been  ruined  by  some 
beast — a  man  like  Tom  Kuhler?    Would  he  hate  her  also? 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  in 

Whom  would  he  blame — the  girl  or  the  man?  He  would 
blame  Kuhler  of  course.  Why  ?  Because  the  girl  was  weak. 
Because  she  could  not  hold  back — as  May  Stanley  put  it. 
And  how  about  the  man  ?  He  was  drunk ;  he  was  "sweat- 
ing wine."  He  too  could  have  resisted  had  he  been  sober. 
Why  was  he  not  sober?  Because  he  had  celebrated  the 
football  victory.  Football  again!  Football  overdevelops 
the  body;  it  transforms  men  into  husky  beasts.  It  leaves 
the  mind  inactive,  inert.  It  makes  animals — human  animals 
without  power  of  reason  to  restrain  the  appetite  which  it 
stimulates  and  vulgarizes  by  suppressing  the  spirit  and  ex- 
tolling the  flesh.  That  night  Kuhler  was  a  drunken  brute — 
nothing  more.  The  girl,  after  all,  was  not  to  blame;  she 
was  helpless.  Had  it  been  his  own  sister,  he  would  have 
killed  Kuhler.  But  what  chance  had  Milton  against  the 
brute  strength  of  this  giant?  None.  Then  beast  was  su- 
perior to  man  ?  No ;  the  beast  could  not  even  think.  Phys- 
ical strength  without  thought,  without  mental  power — it  is 
only  weakness.  Man  can  think;  he  can  proclaim;  he  can 
expose ;  he  can  condemn,  destroy  and  annihilate  with  words 
alone.  What  are  blows  compared  to  words  ?  What  is  mere 
savage  strength  in  the  presence  of  civilization,  rectitude  and 
pure  thought?  Nothing.  Very  well,  Milton  would  under- 
take to  expose  and  condemn  all.  He  would  bark  at  the 
evil.  Bark !  Bark  ?  Ah,  that  is  just  what  the  watchdog  had 
done.  After  all,  he  would  be  lowering  himself  to  the  level  of 
one  whose  kennel  he  had  just  left — another  brute  like 
Kuhler  himself. 

These  thoughts  kept  pacing  through  Paul  Milton's  mind. 
He  tried  to  rearrange  them,  to  alter  them  in  order  to  arrive 
at  a  new  conclusion,  but  in  vain.  They  would  give  him 
no  peace.  The  invisible  hands  alternately  pushed  him  back- 
ward and  forward;  the  inaudible  voice  alternately  said 
"Act"  and  "Wait."  Doubt — nothing  but  doubt — confronted 
him.  The  tempest  of  thought  was  tossing  his  mind  just  as 
May  Stanley  had  tossed  his  body  at  the  dance,  and  now, 
more  heartlessly  than  ever,  some  greater  power  was  dashing 
that  body  from  one  side  of  his  bed  to  the  other,  for  he 


112  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

seemed  to  have  no  more  self-control  than  a  fisherman's 
smack  on  a  raging  sea. 

Thus  he  suffered  the  whole  night.  The  clock  in  the  Chapel 
tower  struck  twelve;  then  one — two — three — four.  Why 
had  he  not  heard  it  strike  five  ?  Had  he  fallen  asleep  ?  No  ; 
but  he  was  dreaming  nevertheless.  He  had  unconsciously 
arisen  from  the  bed  and  taken  up  his  violin.  And  there  he 
sat  in  utter  darkness,  listening  to  those  old  melodies  which 
had  so  often  calmed  his  soul :  Schumann's  Traumerei  and 
Schubert's  Ave  Maria.  Barcarolles  and  cradle  songs  floated 
out  the  window  like  pearls  dropping  one  by  one  from  a 
silken  cord,  touching  the  silent  earth,  and  then  rebounding, 
rising  and  wandering  off  through  the  darkness  to  meet 
the  dawn. 

Agitation  had  vanished;  repose  had  replaced  it.  The 
darkness  was  gradually  dispersed  as  the  sky  took  on  the 
delicate  glow  of  the  June  roses,  which  were  blooming  in 
the  garden  of  the  Home  for  the  Aged.  Milton  was  still 
playing  his  violin.  The  birds  one  after  another  had  joined 
him  with  their  songs,  twittering  and  frolicking  among  the 
leafy  branches  which  shaded  his  window.  He  ceased  play- 
ing to  throw  a  few  crumbs  on  the  roof,  and  some  of  them 
ate  from  his  hand.  Across  the  street,  four  of  the  dear  old 
ladies  had  already  arisen  and  were  sitting  at  their  windows 
breathing  the  fresh  cool  air  mingled  with  the  perfume  from 
the  flowers  on  the  sills.  Their  knitting  needles  reflected 
the  morning  sunlight,  and  their  faces  beamed  with  joy. 
After  all,  there  is  no  great  sorrow  in  being  alone,  as  long 
as  the  lonely  one  is  good,  as  long  as  he  is  alone  with  God. 
How  happy  these  dear  old  women  seemed  as  they  smiled 
out  occasionally  between  the  stems  of  the  flowers  at  the 
birds,  which  flew  by  their  windows,  or  at  the  busy  milk 
wagons,  which  clicked  against  the  white  cobblestones !  Poor 
sweet  souls !  How  they  made  him  think  of  his  mother  at 
home,  and  how  he  wished  that  he  might  borrow  the  wings 
of  the  birds  and  fly  to  her  window  also ! 

Miss  Jones  was  out  sweeping  her  pavement.  She  was 
neatly  dressed  in  a  gray-and-white-striped  gingham,  drawn 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  113 

in  snugly  at  the  waist  with  an  immaculately  clean  apron.  A 
few  ringlets  of  her  bright  golden  hair  showed  here  and 
there  under  a  lace  boudoir  cap  with  a  bow  of  turquoise  blue. 
How  it  brightens  our  own  existence,  thought  Paul,  when 
we  entertain  only  good  and  clean  thoughts  about  the  per- 
sons of  the  community  in  which  we  live!  It  makes  us 
young  and  happy  no  matter  how  far  we  have  advanced  in 
years.  Such  was  the  impression  Miss  Jones  made  upon  him 
as  she  hummed  the  simple  ditty,  which  was  borne  to  his 
ears  on  the  wind.  How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  live  in  her 
house  and  be  greeted  by  her  smiling  face  every  morning ! 

Arch  Coddington,  up  bright  and  early  to  take  the  exam- 
ination for  which  Milton  had  prepared  him,  walked  by  on 
his  way  to  breakfast.  He  was  whistling  and  twittering  as 
happily  as  the  birds.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  at  Miss 
Jones'  gate  to  have  a  friendly  chat ;  she  plucked  a  rosebud 
from  her  flower  bed  and  placed  it  in  his  buttonhole.  How 
happy  they  seemed ! 

Commencement  was  but  a  few  days  off,  and  he  was 
thinking  of  the  honors  and  the  prizes  which  would  soon  be' 
his,  of  the  bright  blue  sky  and  the  glorious  sun,  which  was 
bathing  the  earth,  the  birds,  the  flowers,  the  whole  univer- 
sity and  all  its  students  in  rich  golden  light;  and  he  too 
was  just  as  happy  as  Miss  Jones,  who,  after  Coddington 
left  her,  began  to  sweep  more  energetically  and  sing  more 
merrily  than  before. 

"God's  in  his  heaven ;  all's  right  with  the  world !" 

Milton  was  startled  from  his  reverie;  for  he  imagined 
he  had  heard  a  dog  bark  behind  him.  It  was  Sweeny  call- 
ing to  him  through  the  tin  chute  and  telling  him  to  hurry 
down  to  the  dining  room;  the  students  were  waiting  for 
breakfast.  It  was  the  first  morning  in  four  years  that 
Milton  had  overslept. 


CHAPTER  X 

VARIOUS    KINDS    OF    LOVE 

Commencement  came.  Paul  Milton  had  earned  enough, 
through  the  bureau  of  self-help,  to  bring  his  mother  from 
Norford  to  the  university.  How  happy  she  was  to  hear 
from  the  lips  of  the  president  that  her  son  had  been  the 
recipient  of  honors,  prizes,  and  a  graduate  scholarship !  And 
as  to  his  accepting  it — she  was  even  more  encouraging  in 
regard  to  that  than  she  had  been  when  he  was  offered  the 
first  free  scholarship  from  "The  Alumni."  The  "good  and 
great  purpose"  was  gradually  unfolding  to  her.  She  was 
deeply  impressed  by  the  conferring  of  the  higher  degrees 
and  honoraries.  The  ceremony  of  the  briUiantly  colored 
velvet  hoods  awakened  in  her  a  certain  awe  and  reverence 
for  the  great  men  over  whose  heads  they  were  placed  and 
for  the  great  accomplishments  which  had  justified  their 
presentation.  And  she  dared  wonder  if  her  own  son  might 
some  day  be  similarly  decorated  for  a  deed  which  he  was 
yet  to  perform. 

Arch  Coddington  sat  very  near  to  Milton  in  the  Chapel. 
He  had  passed  his  condition  examination  successfully,  as 
he  had  all  others  by  spending  a  little  fortune  on  tutoring. 
He  too  wore  a  similar  cap  and  gown  and  had  won  the  same 
degree  that  was  conferred  upon  Milton.  Aside  from  Mil- 
ton's prizes,  there  was  no  reward  to  differentiate  between 
his  love  and  Coddington's  hatred  for  scholarship.  And  in- 
deed there  were  many  other  students  there  who  had  also 
loved  their  books,  but  who  had  not  even  received  prizes  to 
distinguish  them  from  those  who  detested  all  kinds  of 
study.  But  the  future,  not  the  present,  would  decide  the 
real  difference.     Scholarship  was,  after  all,  the  great  thing. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  115 

He  would  prove  it  so  by  his  graduate  work.  As  for  the 
pleasures  and  friends  which  Coddington  had  enjoyed,  he 
must  now  separate  from  them.  But  the  books  can  be  taken 
with  us,  and  the  pleasures  which  they  have  afforded  can 
always  be  renewed.     Milton  therefore  felt  triumphant. 

There  was  only  one  thing  with  which  the  widow  had 
been  dissatisfied,  and  that  was  the  miserable  garret  her  son 
had  occupied;  but  he  assured  her  he  would  stay  there  no 
longer,  for  he  intended  to  room  across  the  street  when  he 
returned  in  the  fall — in  the  house  of  Miss  Jones. 

It  was  a  happy  mother  and  son  who  journeyed  back  to 
the  little  cottage  at  Norford.  The  report  of  Paul  Milton's 
high  standing  had  reached  the  town  before  him.  His  big 
success  in  scholarship  and  his  love  for  the  Alma  Mater 
seemed  to  have  obliterated  all  his  unpleasant  experience,  for 
the  article  which  he  contributed  for  publication  in  the  Nor- 
ford Post  was  gushing  with  praise  and  optimism.  It  spoke 
very  highly  of  both  the  scholastic  and  the  moral  standards, 
stating  that  he  had  found  university  life  clean  and  inspir- 
ing— as  clean  and  inspiring  a  life  as  a  student  could  possibly 
live  after  leaving  it.  The  letter  also  announced  his  inten- 
tion to  return  and  continue  his  studies  along  mathematical 
lines  at  the  Graduate  School. 

Mr.  Wallace  Bennett  read  Milton's  article  in  the  daily 
paper.  It  did  not  please  him;  it  disgusted  him.  Such 
optimism  about  the  morals  of  the  university  always  had  dis- 
gusted him.  He  knew  only  too  well  the  general  tendency 
of  all  our  universities  to  conceal  the  immorality  they  shelter. 
He  decided  that  one  of  two  things  must  be:  either  condi- 
tions had  improved,  or  Paul  Milton  was  blind  to  them.  He 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  boy,  whom  Allaine  had 
selected  as  a  candidate  for  the  free  scholarship,  was  a  total 
failure  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  had  captured  all  the 
prizes  in  sight.  He  hadn't  sent  Paul  Milton  to  the  uni- 
versity to  win  prizes;  he  had  sent  him  there  to  save  the 
souls  of  the  students,  to  make  the  university  a  cleaner 
place,  to  make  the  lives  of  the  students  more  upright.     It 


ii6  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

would  require  more  than  saying  they  were  upright  to  make 
them  so. 

"Oh!  hasn't  Paul  Milton  done  splendidly,"  said  Allaine, 
rushing  into  her  father's  library  that  morning  and  clapping 
her  hands.    "We  must  reward  him." 

"Hasn't  he  been  rewarded  with  his  prizes  from  the 
university  ?"  said  the  father. 

"Yes,  but  the  alumni — 'the  Alumni'  who  sent  him  there 
— they,  too,  should  reward  him,"  suggested  Allaine. 

"Ah,  but  he  has  not  accomplished  that  for  which  we 
have  sent  him,  Allaine.  He  has  either  ignored  it,  or  it  has 
escaped  him.  I  am  not  claiming  that  the  boy  has  lied,  but 
he  certainly  has  been  deceived.  I  refer  to  the  matter  of 
morals,  Allaine;  he  speaks  too  favorably  of  them.  He  has 
evidently  been  shut  up  with  his  books  most  of  the  time  and 
has  not  been  aware  of  the  depravity  which  surrounded  him. 
By  overlooking  it,  he  has  made  it  worse,  not  better;  it  will 
continue  to  thrive  undetected.  I  know  that  it  exists;  I 
know  it  only  too  well,  Allaine.  I  have  my  own  experiences 
and  those  of  a  hundred  others  for  example  and  proof." 

"But  you  yourself  said  it  would  require  a  true  scholar 
to  undertake  a  reform,"  said  Allaine.  "Surely  Paul  Milton 
has  proved  himself  a  true  scholar." 

"Yes — too  much  of  a  true  scholar — a  scholar  and  noth- 
ing else." 

"But  he  intends  to  return  to  the  university.  Perhaps  he 
knows  more  about  the  wrongs  than  you  or  I  imagine  he  does. 
After  all,  how  could  he  have  the  courage  to  condemn  the 
very  institution  which  has  showered  so  many  honors  upon 
him?" 

"He  deserved  them,  Allaine,  and  the  very  fact  that  he 
earned  them  honestly  would  give  weight  to  his  opinions.  A 
true  reformer  never  lies !  He  speaks  the  truth  and  only  the 
truth,  no  matter  what  the  cost." 

"Well,  perhaps  he  has  not  yet  seen  enough ; — he  will  see 
more  when  he  returns." 

"He  is  returning  to  continue  his  studies  in  mathematics. 
That  is  a  very  inhuman  subject.    With  it  he  is  more  likely 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  117 

to  see  less  than  he  saw  before ;  it  will  hardly  inspire  him  in 
the  matter  of  reform." 

"Perhaps  mathematics  is  only  an  excuse  for  his  going 
back,  his  real  purpose  being  to  agitate  a  reform,"  said 
Allaine. 

"How  you  do  insist !  Then  you  think  we  should  give 
him  another  chance  ? 

"Yes,  father,  do  not  give  up  so  soon.  As  long  as  he  is 
returning  to  the  university,  there  is  still  hope.  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  I  feel  certain  that  Paul  Milton  has  seen  the  con- 
ditions you  have  mentioned  to  me.  Something  tells  me  he 
knows  there  is  need  of  reform,  but  that  he  is  not  ready  to 
undertake  it — but  he  will  undertake  it  eventually.  After 
all.  Father,  we  mentioned  nothing  of  this  to  him  when  he 
first  left ;  we  never  as  much  as  whispered  the  word  reform 
in  his  ear." 

"No ;  it  is  God,  not  man,  who  whispers  that  word  in  the 
ear  of  the  reformer.  It  is  nonsense  to  try  to  make  a  re- 
former ;  reformers  are  born,  Allaine.  The  desire  to  reform 
their  fellow-men  is  innate;  it  needs  but  some  event,  some 
vision  to  awaken  it — something  to  set  the  strings  vibrating 
— the  strings  in  the  heart  which  is  ready  to  bleed  for 
humanity." 

"Perhaps  what  he  has  seen  has  not  come  close  enough 
to  his  own  heart;  perhaps  he  is  waiting  for  something  to 
strike  it  and  wound  it ;  perhaps  he  is  still  in  doubt,  awaiting 
the  final  impetus." 

"You  are  not  going  to  give  up,  are  you,  Allaine?" 

"No;  I  think  we  should  help  him  more  than  we  have. 
It  may  be  that  he  lacks  courage,  that  he  has  no  fellow-re- 
former to  spur  him  on." 

"Who  spured  Emerson  on  to  say  the  things  which  have 
been  handed  down  to  us?" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Allaine  suddenly.  "Why  not  present 
him  with  a  set  of  Emerson  just  Hke  ours?  Think  how  they 
have  helped  us  and  how  they  will  help  him!" 

"Great,  Allaine!" 

"And  let  them  come  from  The  Alumni'  again,  in  recog- 


ii8  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

nition  of  the  good  work  which  he  has  done  with  the  schol- 
arship," said  she. 

"A  capital  idea !" 

"He  loves  books;  and  in  these  he  will  find  the  strength 
and  the  encouragement  he  needs.  You  have  grown  impa- 
tient, Father;  learn  to  wait.  It  will  come;  it  must  come. 
God  is  preparing  him,  slowly  but  victoriously." 

AUaine's  words  indeed  awakened  a  new  hope  in  Wal- 
lace Bennett.  She  had  again  helped  Paul  Milton,  although 
he  never  knew  it,  for  the  set  of  Emerson  was  expressed  to 
him  a  few  days  later  "from  The  Alumni." 

That  summer  the  Bennetts  remained  in  Norford,  and 
an  old  college  chum  of  Mr.  Bennett's  spent  several  weeks 
at  Willow  Lodge.  He  was  Richard  Hollis,  and  he  was  ac- 
companied by  his  boy,  Harold.  They  had  just  returned 
from  a  two-years  sojourn  in  France  and  Italy.  Mr.  Hollis 
had  resorted  to  European  travel  as  a  means  for  alleviating 
the  grief  which  his  wife's  death  had  occasioned  both  him 
and  his  son. 

Harold  HolHs  was  a  very  brilliant  young  man.  He  had 
graduated  from  preparatory  school  and  had  passed  all  his 
entrance  requirements  for  college.  He  had  taken  a  few 
textbooks  with  him  in  his  journey  abroad  that  he  might 
refresh  his  memory  now  and  then,  for  it  was  decided  that 
he  enter  the  university  in  the  fall. 

The  boy  had  taken  only  a  general  interest  in  "prep" 
school  athletics  and  was  not  a  highly  specialized  punting- 
machine ;  his  physique  had  been  symmetrically  and  normally 
developed.  There  was  something  incomparably  clean  about 
his  general  appearance,  and  his  manner  was  upright  and 
manly.  His  eyes  were  clear,  and  his  teeth  were  not  stained 
by  tobacco.  His  complexion  was  ruddy.  He  was  naturally 
handsome;  his  handsomeness  was  not  the  work  of  a  ton- 
sorial  artist.  Mr.  Bennett  had  not  failed  to  notice  this,  and 
he  took  a  great  liking  to  the  boy  almost  immediately. 

The  face  of  Richard  Hollis  was  not  characterized  by 
that  clearness  and  openness  which  at  once  attracted  our 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  119 

attention  to  the  face  of  his  son.  There  were  in  it  some  lines 
— inconspicuous  perhaps — which  were  indicative  of  a  looser 
and  less  abstemious  youth.  It  was  probably  the  deceased 
mother  who  had  started  Harold  on  a  straighter  path.  The 
father's  views  on  morals  were  expounded  one  afternoon  on 
the  veranda  in  a  conversation  between  him  and  his  class- 
mate. 

"Well,  Dick,  what  do  you  think  about  existing  conditions 
at  the  university  today  ?"  asked  Mr.  Bennett,  whose  interest 
in  Paul  Milton's  reform  had  been  rekindled  by  Allaine's 
suggestions.    "I  mean  morally — student  life  in  general." 

"The  conditions  are  just  the  same  as  they  were  when  we 
were  undergraduates,"  said  Mollis,  shaking  the  ashes  from 
his  cigar.    "They  will  always  be  such." 
'Why  always?" 

"Because  they  will  grow  neither  better  nor  worse;  all 
attempts  to  reform  them  are  futile." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?"  inquired  Wallace  Bennett. 
"Well,  we  can  do  a  heap  of  talking  and  writing  trying 
to  ameliorate  them,  but  after  all,  boys  will  be  boys.  It 
doesn't  improve  them  to  be  everlastingly  harping  on  what 
they  should  be  and  on  what  they  shouldn't  do.  You  will 
find  in  the  end  they  are  just  where  they  were  in  the  begin- 
ning. I  firmly  believe  in  letting  each  boy  take  care  of  him- 
self. If  he  wants  to  smoke,  let  him  smoke;  if  he  wants 
to  drink,  let  him  drink;  if,  when  he  grows  old  enough,  he 
wants  a  mistress,  I  wouldn't  offer  any  serious  objections 
to  that,  although  I  would  tell  him  to  be  careful.  In  fact  I 
have  said  these  things  to  Harold  since  his  mother's  death. 
She  had  always  preached  to  him  against  intemperance  and 
immorality.  He  is  a  fine  upright  boy,  but  I  believe  he  would 
have  turned  out  to  be  that  without  his  mother's  sermons. 
It  is  a  mother's  right,  of  course,  to  rear  her  children  as  she 
wills,  but  I  myself  would  certainly  allow  a  boy  to  do  pretty 
much  as  he  pleased.  I  believe  Harold  denies  himself  those 
pleasures  in  which  all  his  friends  indulge." 

"You  are  wrong,  Dick,  in  trying  to  weaken  his  mother's 
influence.     I  think  you  should  persuade  the  boy  to  keep 


120  THE  NEW   FRATERNITY 

away  from  all  habits  which  will  eventually  cheapen  his  char- 
acter," said  Mr.  Bennett. 

"Well,  see  here,  Wallace,"  continued  HoUis,  "what  if 
I  should  refuse  him  such  pleasures?  He  would  probably 
indulge  in  them  secretly  if  he  so  wished,  and  there  would 
be  nothing  honorable  in  that.  But  let  your  son  know  that 
you  feel  indifferent  toward  his  conduct,  and  he  acts  on  his 
own  responsibility  which  means  far  more  to  him  than  acting 
on  the  combined  responsibilities  of  both  his  parents.  The 
boy  who  has  gone  through  these  things  and  learned  his  les- 
son is,  I  believe,  a  whole  lot  better  off  than  a  milksop.  Ex- 
perience is  the  best  teacher.  These  things  are  a  part  of 
life,  and  while  they  seem  to  degrade  us  temporarily,  yet, 
in  the  end  we  are  stronger  for  having  undergone  them. 
There  is  seldom  any  serious  damage  done.  The  modern 
play  which  transforms  our  theatre  into  a  medical  laboratory 
seems  to  me  pretty  much  of  a  farce.  It's  a  new  idea — that's 
all.  The  object  is  simply  a  commercial  one,  although  it  is 
described  as  sociological." 

"I  believe  they  are  doing  much  good,"  argued  Bennett. 

"There's  not  much  good  to  be  done.  The  reports  on  suf- 
fering from  venereal  diseases  are  frightfully  exaggerated 
nowadays.  If  a  man  is  at  all  careful,  he  avoids  all  contami- 
nation, and  even  if  he  does  get  caught  up,  he  can  be  cured, 
and  the  chances  are  it  will  never  affect  his  children.  Now  to 
come  down  to  the  fine  point,  Bennett,  take  your  case  and 
mine.  God  knows  we  were  wild  enough.  I  hope  Harold  uses 
just  a  Httle  better  judgment.  And  yet  with  all  our  carousing 
and  our  intercourse  with  the  lowest  types  of  women,  what 
has  been  the  outcome  ?    There  it  is  down  on  the  court." 

Allaine  had  promised  Harold  to  play  tennis  that  morn- 
ing. They  were  both  dressed  in  white;  he  in  a  soft  silk 
shirt,  flannels  and  buckskin  shoes;  she  in  a  simple  flowing 
skirt  and  a  waist  which  exposed  her  snowy  throat  to  the 
wind  and  the  sun.  Both  of  them  moved  about  the  court 
very  gracefully,  the  brilliant  sunlight  accentuating  the  white- 
ness of  their  attire  against  the  dark  green  hedges  in  the 
background. 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  121 

"Your  girl  and  my  boy,"  continued  Richard  Mollis,  "look 
at  them — both  of  them  immaculate — both  of  them  without 
a  blemish — both  of  them  paragons  of  purity.  Two  swans 
floating  on  a  silver  lake  would  not  present  a  finer  picture, 
as  far  as  graceful  perfect  bodies  are  concerned." 

Bennett  nodded;  "we  have  much  to  be  thankful  for. 
God  has  been  merciful  to  us." 

"He  is  merciful  to  nine  out  of  every  ten  perhaps," 
added  Hollis.  "That  is  what  leads  me  to  beHeve  that  He 
doesn't  take  it  so  seriously  as  we  do.  And  as  for  the  un- 
lucky one — ^well,  it  gives  the  doctors  something  to  quack 
about.  They  like  to  bring  themselves  into  the  limelight  too, 
just  as  much  as  men  in  other  professions  do." 

"But  think  if  you  had  been  the  unlucky  one!  Think  if 
that  boy  down  there  had  been  born  with  it!  Think  if  your 
sins  had  polluted  his  blood !" 

"I  am  not  looking  for  trouble,  Bennett;  I  don't  care  to 
think  of  matters  as  being  any  worse  than  they  are." 

**But  have  you  no  sympathy,  no  consideration  for  the 
unlucky  devil  who  doesn't  escape?  Don't  you  think  he 
should  also  concern  us?  Don't  you  think  we  should  con- 
sider our  children's  children  as  well  as  our  own?  Who 
knows  but  that  there  may  be  a  trace  of  it  in  the  boy  my 
daughter  should  marry,  or  in  the  girl  your  son  should  take 
to  wife?  If  it  appeared  in  their  offspring,  we  would  cer- 
tainly regret  it,  even  though  we  ourselves  were  not  the 
source  of  it." 

"You  look  too  far  ahead,  Wallace;  why  don't  you  look 
at  the  more  cheerful  side  of  life,  and  try  to  know  that  these 
things  will  turn  out  all  right?" 

"The  fact  that  God,  after  all  my  abuse  of  his  powers, 
has  blessed  me  with  so  clean  a  child  as  AUaine  makes  me 
feel  that  I  owe  Him  something  in  return." 

"What?" 

"That  I  cannot  be  too  careful  in  the  examination  of  the 
man  who  selects  her — that  I  shall  in  no  way  expose  her  to 
the  slightest  infection  which  might  mar  her  future  hap- 
piness." 


122  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

"Well,  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  heretofore,  but  just  now 
it  occurs  to  me  that  a  marriage  between  our  two  children 
would  relieve  both  of  us  of  that  anxiety  and  investigation. 
I  am  sure  that  you  and  I,  as  old  college  chums,  would  not 
object  to  the  union,"  added  Richard  Mollis  smiling. 

"Decidedly  not;"  said  Bennett,  "if  Allaine  wins  a  hus- 
band as  clean  as  Harold,  I  know  I  shall  be  happy  the  rest 
of  my  days." 

"And  I  couldn't  hope  for  a  more  charming  daughter-in- 
law." 

"Of  course  the  two  children  must  also  be  satisfied  with 
each  other,"  said  Bennett. 

"Well,  it  looks  to  me  as  though  the  tournament  down 
there  on  the  tennis  court  might  end  up  in  a  love  game," 
said  HolHs. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Bennett  joined  them. 

"I  am  so  delighted  with  Allaine,"  she  said.  "I  have 
never  seen  her  make  up  with  boys  before.  There  must  be 
some  magic  charm  about  your  son,  Mr.  Hollis.  It  is  rarely 
if  ever  that  she  even  looks  at  a  man.  I  am  so  glad  Harold 
has  been  able  to  draw  her  out  of  the  library.  Wouldn't  it 
be  interesting  if  something  should  come  of  this?'* 

"Wouldn't  it  though,"  said  Mr.  Hollis. 

"It  is  not  impossible;  and  it  is  not  improbable,"  said 
Bennett. 

And  that  evening  at  dinner  Allaine  Bennett  and  Har- 
old Hollis  were  being  closely  watched  by  their  parents,  al- 
though they  were  almost  unaware  of  the  presence  of  the 
seniors. 

That  night  after  Mr.  Hollis  had  retired,  his  son  entered 
from  an  adjoining  room  in  his  pajamas  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  father's  bed. 

"Say,  Dad,"  whispered  Harold,  for  he  thought  that  his 
father  might  be  asleep,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  waken  him. 

"What  is  it,  Harold?" 

"I've  got  a  confession  to  make." 

"A  confession  I" 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  123 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy,  glad  that  the  room  was  dark,  for  he 
felt  himself  blushing. 

"Well,  out  with  it,  my  son." 

"I  believe  I'm  in  love." 

The  father  sat  up  in  bed. 

"You  believe  it !    Why  don't  you  know  it  ?" 

"I  know  it  too,"  said  Harold,  with  assurance. 

"Good!  who  is  the  lucky  girl?" 

"Miss  Bennett,"  answered  the  boy,  his  voice  wavering. 
"She  is  beautiful — ^beautiful  not  only  in  appearance  but 
also  in  personality.  I  love  her;  I  simply  can't  help  it.  I 
wish  to  be  at  her  side  all  the  time;  I  am  unhappy  when  I 
am  not  with  her^I  am  somewhat  ashamed  of  myself." 

"It's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of,  my  boy;  for  Allaine  is 
a  charming  girl,  and  if  I  were  a  little  younger,  I  might  try 
to  cut  you  out." 

"You  like  her,  then ;  do  you  Dad  ?" 

"Certainly;  who  wouldn't  like  her?" 

"And  you  wouldn't  object  to  having  her  for  a  daughter?" 

"Don't  be  too  previous,  Harold.  Remember  you  can't 
marry  until  you  are  out  of  college." 

"Four  years!"  groaned  Harold. 

"Four  years,"  repeated  Mr.  Hollis. 

"It  is  a  long  time,  but  I  can  wait,"  added  the  youth  in 
a  brighter  vein.  "If  I  felt  sure  I  could  have  her,  I  would 
study  all  the  harder  and  try  to  do  something  big — something 
that  would  make  me  worthy  of  her.  And  the  thought  that  she 
would  ultimately  be  mine  would  always  keep  me  straight." 

"I  believe  it  would,"  said  the  father.  "She  is  a  very 
sweet  girl,  but  at  the  same  time  you  must  not  let  her  blot 
everything  else  out  of  your  life." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean.  Dad  ?" 

"Don't  get  the  idea  into  your  head  that  you  must  be- 
come a  saint;  don't  consider  yourself  tied  down  until  you 
are  married." 

"Well,"  said  the  boy,  as  he  arose  from  the  bed,  "I  am 
glad  I  told  you  about  it.  I  think  I  shall  feel  some  better 
now — at  least  I  hope  so.    Good  night." 


124  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

There  was  a  similar  scene  enacted  almost  simultaneously 
across  the  hall  that  night.  Mr.  Bennett,  in  his  bath  robe 
and  slippers,  had  crossed  to  AUaine's  chamber.  He  rapped 
lightly  and  then  entered.    AUaine  had  not  yet  retired. 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  your  house  guest,  Allaine  ?" 

''My  house  guest!   Your  house  guests,"  she  said. 

"How  is  the  tennis  progressing  ?"  he  asked. 

"Not  very  well  for  me.  Father;  we  are  to  play  another 
set  tomorrow.'" 

"That's  good,"  said  Mr.  Bennett. 

Then  both  of  them  were  silent  for  a  few  seconds. 

"I  have  come  to  find  out  if  you  are  interested  in  Mr. 
Hollis'  son,  because  I  have  taken  a  great  liking  to  him, 
Allaine." 

'*He  is  good  fun,"  said  Allaine,  "and  a  natural  gentle- 
man." 

"You  seem  to  enjoy  his  company." 

"He  is  most  pleasant,"  answered  the  girl. 

"Allaine,"  said  Mr.  Bennett,  placing  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders  and  looking  squarely  into  her  eyes,  "tell  me 
frankly —  do  you  love  him?" 

"Oh  Father!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  smile,  "it  is  not  so 
serious  as  that.  Mr.  Hollis  is  your  guest,  and  for  that  rea- 
son I  feel  it  my  duty  to  do  what  I  can  to  entertain  him.  It 
is  one  way  in  which  I  can  show  my  love  for  you.  And  here 
is  another." 

She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"There;  good  night.  Father." 

"Good  night,  my  little  daughter." 

And  after  he  left  her  and  closed  the  door,  she  sat  at 
the  open  window,  gazing  sadly  at  the  willow  trees  in  the 
moonlit  garden  and  wondering  if  her  love  for  her  father 
might  not,  perhaps,  be  greater  than  her  love  for  Paul  Milton. 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE    GRADUATE    STUDENT 


In  the  early  part  of  the  summer,  Paul  Milton  glanced 
through  some  of  the  books  with  which  "The  Alumni"  had 
presented  him,  but  he  found  them  very  dry  reading  indeed 
— not  even  a  triangle  or  a  polygon  or  a  parabola  to  break  the 
monotony  of  hundreds  of  pages  of  solid  print. 

"Why  did  they  present  me  with  a  set  of  Emerson,"  said 
he  to  his  mother,  "when  they  knew  I  was  going  to  continue 
my  studies  along  mathematical  lines?  They  would  have 
done  better  to  have  given  me  a  set  of  textbooks  in  Higher 
Mathematics,  or  the  money  with  which  to  buy  them." 

When  Paul  returned  to  the  university,  he  left  the  Emer- 
sons  on  a  shelf  in  the  little  studio  under  the  roof,  and  there 
they  remained  unread  and  unopened. 

On  his  arrival  in  town,  he  went  directly  to  Miss  Jones' 
house.  In  an  instant  she  was  standing  before  him — the  same 
happy  Miss  Jones  whom  he  had  seen  from  the  window  of 
Mr.  Sweeny's  garret  in  June.  How  different  she  appeared 
from  the  landlady  whose  fat  steaming  hand  had  placed  the 
food  on  the  "dummy."  His  graduate  scholarship  was  suf- 
ficient to  pay  for  his  room  and  board.  He  would  no  longer 
have  to  wait  on  Mrs.  Sweeny's  tables  or  shovel  coal  for  the 
watchdog.  How  happy  he  was  that  he  would  never  again 
meet  that  snarling  face !  Only  the  kind  smiling  countenance 
of  Miss  Jones  would  greet  him  as  he  passed  in  the  hall. 

"Have  you  any  rooms  for  rent?"  asked  Milton. 

"No,"  said  the  landlady,  "all  the  rooms  in  my  house  are 
reserved  by  contract  at  least  a  year  in  advance." 

Milton  had  never  thought  to  engage  a  room  beforehand. 
He  had  been  accustomed  to  living  in  a  garret,  which  no 


126  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

other  student  would  care  to  occupy.  He  thought  he  could 
find  an  empty  attic  room  in  any  house  at  any  time. 

"I  am  very  sorry  I  did  not  make  arrangements  with  you 
last  June.  I  had  hoped  so  much  to  live  in  this  house.  I 
am  not  particular  about  location  or  size.  I  simply  want  a 
room —  a  room  of  any  kind — a  room  under  the  roof." 

"Well,"  remarked  the  landlady,  with  pretended  hesi- 
tancy, "I  have  a  small  room  in  the  attic,  which  has  never 
been  occupied.  Perhaps  I  could  furnish  it  so  that  it  might 
be  comfortable  although  not  very  elegant.  Would  you  like 
to  see  the  room  ?" 

"Please,"  said  Milton. 

"Just  place  your  suitcase  here  in  the  hall,"  said  Miss 
Jones. 

Milton  bounded  up  the  stairs.  On  the  third  landing,  she 
unlatched  a  door,  which  opened  into  a  small  room  where 
several  odd  pieces  of  furniture  stood  in  one  corner. 

"You  would  be  the  only  one  on  this  floor,"  she  said. 
"You  might  find  it  rather  lonesome  up  here." 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  Milton,  as  he  stood  on  one  of 
the  chairs  to  look  out  at  the  garret  across  the  street,  heav- 
ing a  sigh  of  reHef. 

"The  windows  are  rather  high,"  remarked  Miss  Jones. 

"They  are  ideal  windows  for  a  study,"  said  Milton. 
"One  is  not  Hkely  to  be  peering  out  of  them  all  the  time, 
seeing  things  which  detract  one  from  one's  books." 

"Yes,  and  at  the  same  time  they  admit  lots  of  sunlight. 
The  room  is  always  very  bright,  both  in  morning  and  after- 
noon. I  shall  get  you  a  little  gas-stove  in  winter.  When 
furnished  it  will  be  very  cheerful." 

"What  is  the  rental?"  inquired  Milton. 

"Well,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  You  see  the  room  has 
never  been  rented  before,  and  I  don't  know  just  what  to 
ask.  But  there  is  no  hurry  about  that.  First  see  if  you 
like  it,  and  then  pay  me  what  you  think  it  is  worth." 

Imagine  Mr.  Sweeny  renting  a  room  on  these  conditions ! 
Milton  told  Miss  Jones  he  thought  her  too  kind,  but  he  de- 
cided to  take  the  room. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  127 

"You  used  to  live  across  the  street,  I  believe,"  said  the 
landlady,  as  they  were  descending  the  stairs. 

"Yes ;  for  four  years,"  said  Milton. 

"You  are  accustomed  to  garrets  then." 

Miss  Jones  had  observed  more  about  the  neighborhood 
than  Mr.  Sweeny  had  imagined. 

"I  used  to  see  you  occasionally  at  your  window  over 
there,"  she  continued,  "and  I  have  heard  every  note  you 
ever  played  on  your  violin.  I  would  sit  for  hours  listening 
to  your  music.  Once  last  June  just  before  Commencement 
it  seemed  you  played  until  daybreak.  Your  music  fasci- 
nates, entrances ;  you  play  with  so  much  feeling  and  soul. 
In  particular  the  aria  from  Saint-Saens — Mon  coeur  s'ourve 
a  ta  voix — you  interpret  that  so  wonderfully.  One  could 
almost  believe  your  violin  possessed  with  a  human  voice. 
It  stirs  one  up  so.  When  you  play  that  aria,  it  thrills  me 
through  and  through." 

They  had  reached  the  door.     Milton  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  shall  have  the  room  ready  for  you  this  evening,"  said 
the  landlady. 

"I  know  I  shall  live  happily  here,"  said  Milton. 

He  hurried  to  the  office  of  the  dean  of  the  Graduate 
School  to  submit  his  course  of  study  for  the  coming  year. 
The  schedule  was  a  rather  severe  one — so  the  professor 
thought,  but  at  the  same  time  he  had  no  doubt  of  Milton 
being  able  to  carry  it. 

Then  he  walked  across  the  campus,  passing  the  dear  old 
buildings,  to  whose  walls  the  richly  colored  vines  seemed 
to  cling  so  lovingly.  Nothing  had  changed :  everything  was 
the  same.  He  was  back  again  at  the  grand  old  university 
to  continue  the  studies  and  learning  which  would  eventually 
lead  him  to  "the  good  and  great  purpose." 

The  average  student  who,  after  graduation,  returns  to 
his  Alma  Mater  to  pursue  higher  courses  in  the  Graduate 
School  feels  lost  without  the  companions  of  his  preceding 
years.  Some  have  gone  east,  some  west,  some  north,  some 
south ;  but  the  change  in  the  nature  of  their  new  occupations 
leads  them  to  expect  a  change  in  their  surroundings  and 


128  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

associates,  to  which  they  at  once  become  accustomed.  The 
graduate  student,  however,  finds  himself  in  the  same  sur- 
roundings and  interested  in  work  very  similar  to  that  which 
formerly  occupied  his  mind,  and  unlike  the  man  just  out  of 
college,  he  feels  that  he  should  see  the  famiHar  faces  of  his 
senior  days.  He  passes  the  dormitory  and  looks  in  vain  for 
his  roommate  to  "stick  his  head  out  the  window."  He  even 
calls  out  the  name,  but  there  is  no  answer.  If  a  face  ap- 
pears at  all,  it  is  the  face  of  a  stranger — one  that  does  not 
belong  there — one  which  makes  him  feel  sadder  than  had 
no  face  appeared  at  all.  He  goes  to  his  old  boarding  house 
and  finds  the  undergraduates  at  lunch.  He  knows  a  man 
here  and  a  man  there  perhaps,  but  does  not  feel  at  home 
among  them.  He  enters  the  tavern  and  sits  down  at  a 
table — the  same  table  round  which  his  chums  and  he  used 
to  gather  and  listen  to  many  a  good  story  while  the  waiter 
was  ''filling  'em  up."  Where  are  these  friends — these  dear 
ones?  Gone.  Through  half-closed  eyes  he  sees  their  faces 
faintly  outlined  in  the  smoke  which  meanders  from  his 
pipe,  but  he  knows  it  is  all  a  dream  from  which  he  must 
awaken  to  find  himself  alone. 

Paul  Milton  suffered  none  of  this.  He  had  made  no 
bosom  friends.  He  had  frequented  no  taverns.  He  had, 
of  course,  waited  on  Mr.  Sweeny's  tables,  but  the  students 
whom  he  served  changed  from  year  to  year,  and  there  were 
no  strong  ties  between  him  and  them.  Arch  Coddington 
was  perhaps  the  only  one  with  whom  he  had  come  in  close 
contact  outside  of  the  classrooms,  but  Arch  could  scarcely 
be  called  Milton's  friend,  although  Arch  did  much  to  open 
his  eyes — eyes  which  immediately  closed  again  on  the 
scenes  which  had  passed  before  them.  It  seemed  that  Arch 
had  entered  his  Hfe  to  perform  a  secular  duty  by  intro- 
ducing him  to  certain  phases  of  the  college  world,  and 
had  then  passed  out — passed  out  with  Milton's  own  assist- 
ance. Milton  was  indeed  happy  that  Coddington  was  no 
longer  at  the  university ;  for  his  presence  would  only  serve 
to  recall  experiences  which  Milton  was  only  too  willing  to 
forget. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  129 

When  he  returned  to  his  new  quarters  that  evening,  he 
found  the  room  transformed  as  if  by  magic.  There  was  a 
briUiant  Hght  burning  on  the  wall,  just  over  a  firm-looking 
oak  desk  which  had  a  row  of  drawers  at  either  side.  A 
soft  green  rug  had  been  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
and  a  very  comfortable  Morris  chair  had  been  drawn  up 
invitingly  before  a  little  stove,  which  was  diffusing  both 
light  and  heat.  A  cot  stood  under  the  windows,  its  gayly 
colored  couch-cover  turned  back  and  disclosing  a  pair  of 
white  sheets  and  a  soft  downy  pillow.  How  different  it 
was  from  Mr.  Sweeny's  garret  with  its  old  rag  carpet,  its 
broken  table  and  lamp,  and  its  twisted  iron  bed  with  the 
sagging  springs ! 

Milton  fell  into  the  Morris  chair.  He  could  scarcely 
believe  that  the  little  room  was  for  his  sole  use.  What  a 
wonderful  place  to  work  and  study !  How  much  good  he 
would  accomplish  there!  He  stretched  out  comfortably 
that  he  might  enjoy  the  warmth  of  the  little  stove  against 
his  legs  and  knees.  How  good  it  felt!  How  superior  to 
the  tin  chute  which  conducted  the  fumes  from  Mrs. 
Sweeny's  kitchen!  It  was  like  the  sunlight  of  a  Spring 
morning  beaming  across  a  soft  grassy  meadow — for  the 
bright  green  rug  did  look  like  one. 

It  was  a  chilly,  fall  night  outside,  but  it  was  Spring  in- 
deed in  Milton's  cozy  little  room — the  beginning  of  another 
year — the  opening  of  a  bud,  which  would  later  develop  into 
a  marvelous  flower,  rare,  wonderful,  great.  He  sat  there 
dreaming  of  his  future.  He  could  see  that  bud  opening: 
he  could  see  each  petal  unfold  and  assume  its  true  form 
and  position,  each  petal  symbolizing  a  different  event,  an 
experience,  an  achievement — some  dark,  others  bright,  but 
all  combining  to  make  the  final  blossom  which  would  greatly 
enhance  the  university  and  become  the  admiration  of  the 
alumni.  That  is  what  his  professor  had  said  when  he 
offered  him  the  free  graduate  scholarship.  Yes ;  he  would 
work  hard  to  assure  them  that  they  had  made  no  mistake 
in  their  selection.  He  would  study  day  and  night,  and  would 
let  nothing  interfere  with  **the  good  and  great  purpose." 


130  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

There  was  a  light  tap  on  the  door. 

"Come,"  said  Milton. 

Miss  Jones  entered.    Milton  arose  to  greet  her. 

"I  just  came  up  to  ask  you  how  you  liked  it — the  room," 
she  said ;  and  then  she  sat  down  in  the  rocker  which  he  had 
pulled  up  for  her. 

"I  am  almost  afraid  it  is  too  good  for  me,"  he  answered, 
taking  his  chair  again.  "It  is  so  much  better  than  what  I 
was  accustomed  to  last  year.  But  how  about  the  rent.  Miss 
Jones?" 

"Let  us  not  make  that  so  impwDrtant  a  matter.  Let  us 
wait.  You  have  not  been  here  long  enough.  You  see  it 
really  did  not  cost  me  anything  to  furnish  it.  The  desk, 
the  rug,  the  cot,  the  chairs,  the  pillows — all  were  left  here 
by  former  students.  The  boys  usually  give  me  their  furni- 
ture when  they  leave  college.  The  gas  you  burn  is  practic- 
ally the  only  expense,  and  that  will  be  a  trifle." 

"Then  I  have  much  to  be  thankful  for,  both  to  former 
students  and  to  you,"  said  Paul. 

"Yes ;  I  believe  in  treating  every  one  nicely  and  kindly ; 
then  they  treat  me  in  just  the  same  way.  I  have  always 
enjoyed  living  in  the  midst  of  students.  They  seem  to 
brighten  things  up  so  much,  and  they  are  such  perfect  gen- 
tlemen. These  reports  we  here  about  the  terrible  condi- 
tions at  the  university  are  not  only  exaggerated  but  many 
of  them  are  false.  I  couldn't  ask  for  the  company  of  nicer 
young  men  than  those  who  have  lived  with  me  the  last  few 
years.  We  have  been  more  Hke  mother  and  sons.  They 
have  done  everything  they  possibly  could  to  make  me  happy, 
and  I  have  done  all  I  possibly  could  to  make  them,  the 
same." 

"Indeed  I  believe  that,  when  I  see  what  you  have  already 
done  for  me.  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to  return  this  kindness 
in  some  way." 

"I  am  happy  so  long  as  you  are  satisfied,"  she  added, 
walking  toward  the  door.  "I  don't  want  to  keep  you  longer 
from  your  work." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  tonight  but  to  unpack  my  suitcase." 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  131 

"Oh  yes — your  suitcase;  I  carried  it  up  for  you.  You 
will  find  it  there  in  the  closet." 

Milton  opened  the  _door  of  a  spacious  closet,  which  he 
had  not  yet  observed. 

"What  a  fine  place  for  one's  clothes !"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  shall  get  more  hooks  if  you  need  them,"  said  Miss 
Jones. 

He  placed  the  suitcase  on  the  desk,  and  two  large  red 
apples  rolled  out  when  he  opened  it. 

"My  mother  gave  me  these  before  I  left  home;  won't 
you  have  one  ?" 

"Thank  you;  you  had  better  keep  them  for  yourself," 
she  said,  "and  if  you  care  for  more,  you  will  always  find 
a  basketful  in  the  hall.  I  keep  them  there  for  my  boys,  and 
you  are  one  of  them  now.  You  are  all  welcome  to  fruit 
whenever  you  wish  it." 

Milton  wondered  if  it  were  a  real  landlady  before  him; 
she  was  almost  too  kind. 

"I  do  hope  you  won't  get  lonesome,"  she  added,  with  her 
hand  on  the  knob. 

"No  indeed ;  I  am  accustomed  to  being  alone." 

"You  are  quite  sure  there  is  nothing  else  you  need  or 
want?" 

"I  am  perfectly  comfortable,"  he  answered. 

She  hesitated  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  then  bade  him 
good  night.  A  half  hour  later  he  was  sound  asleep  on  the  cot 
under  the  windows,  in  his  own  little  world  among  the  stars. 

The  next  morning  Paul  arose  bright  and  early  in  prepa- 
ration for  his  first  lecture.  The  subject-matter  interested 
him  intensely.  He  took  notes  copiously  and  then  hurried 
down  town  to  purchase  material  and  tools  for  the  construc- 
tion of  conies.  The  professor  had  said  that,  in  solving  the 
problems,  the  students  would  frequently  have  to  draw 
ellipses  and  parabolas  and  that  it  would  save  time  if  they 
made,  once  for  all,  a  set  of  these  from  wood  or  celluloid 
and  ran  their  pencils  or  pens  around  them  when  the  prob- 
lem called  for  a  figure.     He  procured  celluloid  and  sand- 


132  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

paper,  and  a  file  at  the  drug-store ;  and  then  he  returned  to 
his  study. 

He  found  the  room  in  order,  the  colored  cushions  ar- 
ranged artistically  on  the  cot.  He  had  been  obliged  to  make 
his  own  bed  at  Mr.  Sweeny's. 

He  sat  at  his  oak  desk  and  immediately  began  to  make 
the  conies,  using  the  string  constructions  which  he  had 
learned  in  his  freshman  year.  He  traced  the  curves  care- 
fully upon  the  sheet  of  celluloid,  cut  the  pieces  from  it,  at 
first  roughly  with  his  knife,  then  filed  ofif  the  rough  corners 
and  finally  sandpapered  them  down  until  the  outlines  were 
smooth  and  accurate.  It  seemed  more  like  play  than  work. 
It  is  so  with  every  task  in  which  we  are  sincerely  interested. 
He  fondled  the  complete  conies  with  joy,  for  they  were  in- 
deed beautiful  and  beautifully  made. 

He  used  them  throughout  the  year.  These,  together  with 
the  triangles,  compasses  and  rulers  he  had  used  in  his 
course  in  Mechanical  Drawing,  enabled  him  to  insert  very 
neat  drawings  in  his  notes,  which  he  rearranged  and  copied 
after  each  lecture.  When  he  had  written  enough  to  form  a 
book,  he  had  the  notes  bound  in  cloth  and  placed  on  his 
book-shelf  among  the  works  of  the  great  mathematicians. 
Each  new  volume  indicated  another  step  forward — another 
petal  unfolding  in  the  bud. 

His  schedule  was  a  heavy  one.  He  had  much  to  keep 
him  occupied.  He  took  most  interest,  however,  in  those 
studies  which  were  geometrical  in  nature. 

The  Differential  Geometry — the  works  of  Scheffers, 
Bianchi,  Joachimstahl,  Czuber  and  Serret  all  appealed  to 
him.  Curvature,  contact,  invariants,  trajectories,  envelopes, 
evolutes,  differential  equations,  Fldchentreue  Abbildung 
isothermals,  skew  curves,  Fremet's  formulae,  torsion,  the 
osculating  helix,  developables,  the  theorems  of  Gauss  and 
Euler,  the  indicatrices  of  Dupin — all  these  topics  followed 
in  rapid  succession,  each  in  turn  attracting  his  attention  and 
deepest  admiration. 

This  was  also  true  of  the  Projective  Geometry.  He 
would  sit  at  his  desk  for  hours  entranced  by  the  new  con- 


.       THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  133 

ceptions:  the  line  at  infinity  and  its  relation  to  the  three 
types  of  conies  he  had  constructed,  cross  ratio,  correlations 
— the  wonderful  duality  between  line  and  point  geometry. 
He  amused  himself  one  whole  afternoon  writing  corre- 
sponding theorems  in  parallel  colums — theorems  of  Carnot, 
Ceva,  Pascal,  etc. 

These  courses  gradually  prepared  him  for  more  ad- 
vanced work,  which  would  ultimately  lead  to  a  thesis  and 
a  degree — perhaps.  Geometry  was  his  stronghold — the 
favorite  branch  to  which  he  clung.  Later  he  became  fas- 
cinated with  the  cubic  surfaces.  How  often  he  stood  before 
the  case  which  contained  the  famous  Brill  Collection  of 
plaster  models,  viewing  them  from  all  angles,  counting  the 
Hues,  the  nodes  and  the  binodes !  He  loved  to  hold  them 
in  his  hands  just  as  a  child  loves  to  hold  a  pretty  kitten 
in  its  lap. 

The  ruled  surfaces,  illustrated  by  the  thread  models, 
seemed  to  fascinate  him  most.  He  wanted  to  have  them 
near  all  the  time,  that  he  might  see  and  enjoy  them.  It  was 
for  this  reason  that  he  undertook  to  construct  some  of  his 
own.  He  purchased  cardboard,  went  to  the  planing  mill 
and  ordered  a  load  of  lumber — just  a  small  load — a  bundle 
of  small  square  sticks,  which  he  sandpapered  and  then 
painted  with  drawing  ink.  He  also  bought  brass  tacks,  a 
small  hammer  and  a  saw.  He  went  to  the  department  store 
and  selected  several  spools  of  colored  silk,  some  needles,  a 
package  of  black  beads  and  a  package  of  white  ones;  the 
girl  behind  the  counter  snickered  at  him,  but  he  was  too 
much  absorbed  to  notice  it.  He  hurried  home,  worked 
out  the  equations  of  the  traces  of  the  surfaces  made  by 
parallel  planes;  plotted  these  traces  on  the  cardboards, 
which  were  held  apart  and  in  place  by  the  small  wooden 
sticks.  Then  he  threaded  the  needles  with  various  shades 
of  silk  and  strung  it  through  the  perforations  in  the  card- 
board ;  and  where  two  threads  intersected,  he  placed  a 
bead,  just  as  the  original  model  had  instructed  him  to 
do.  His  work  was  very  successful.  The  models  with 
their  glossy  silk  threads  sparkled  in  the  sunshine,   which 


134  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

poured  through  the  high  windows  and  flooded  his  desk  with 
light. 

His  room  had  now  become  a  workshop  and  a  study ; 
for  he  did  no  small  amount  of  hammering  and  sawing  and 
needlework.  One  of  his  professors  gave  him  several  prints 
of  famous  mathematicians — Klein,  Cay  ley,  Kummer,  Lo- 
batchefsky,  Riemann,  Sylvester,  Darboux;  he  tacked  them 
on  the  walls  where  they  served  him  as  inspiration.  He  was 
happy — extremely  happy — as  he  sat  and  mused  and  planned 
and  worked  and  thought  there  alone  in  his  cozy  little  study 
among  his  pictures,  his  models  and  his  books. 

What  had  become  of  his  violin  ?  Alas !  he  had  forgot- 
ten it.  The  case  was  under  his  bed,  and  in  it  lay  the  mute 
instrument,  which  he  had  once  loved  so  well.  It  had  ceased 
to  vibrate,  ceased  to  sing  to  him.  Cayley,  Salmon,  Grass- 
mann  and  Clebsch  had  put  Moskowski,  Schubert,  Wagner 
and  Beethoven  to  flight;  Barcarolles,  sonatas,  operas  and 
Spanish  dances  had  been  superseded  by  congruences,  cy- 
clides,  matrices  and  integrals. 

Miss  Jones  listened  in  vain  for  her  favorite  aria  from 
Saint-Saens,  but  never  a  note  came  from  the  room  overhead. 
Had  it  not  been  that  Milton  went  out  for  his  meals,  she 
would  have  all  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  passed  away. 
"The  boy  has  gone  insane,"  she  would  murmur  to  herself 
as  she  glanced  at  the  thread  models  when  moving  them  to 
dust  his  desk.  ''All  he  does  is  build  and  study  these  mouse 
traps."  Once  she  opened  a  volume  of  his  notes,  trying  to 
read  what  he  had  written.  To  her  it  was  like  so  much 
Greek — and  all  these  mysterious  figures  he  drew  in  the  text ! 
"The  boy  is  mad."  Then  she  saw  an  hyperbolic  paraboloid 
drawn  with  the  Z  axis  horizontal  and  the  X  axis  vertical : 
"A  pair  of  corsets !"  she  exclaimed.  "Ah,"  she  sighed, 
"there's  still  hope  for  him — his  thoughts  are  human  once 
in  a  while." 

Miss  Jones  was  quite  right :  Milton  was  insane.  He 
had  become  a  monomaniac,  and  his  mania  was  geometry. 
He  thought  geometry  all  the  time  he  was  walking,  talking, 
eating,  sleeping.    He  was  interested  in  anything  geometrical. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  135 

He  avoided  everything  else,  unless  his  imagination  could 
transform  it  into  some  configuration  with  which  he  had 
already  met  in  his  work.  He  always  walked  alone,  select- 
ing the  least  frequented  streets  and  alHes;  these  streets  to 
his  mind  formed  a  system  of  orthogonal  trajectories.  The 
telegraph  wires  became  a  pencil  of  lines  with  its  vertex  at 
infinity;  the  buildings  along  the  streets,  polyhedrons;  the 
church  steeple  became  an  octagonal  pyramid,  and  its  large 
colored  glass  window  became  a  system  of  polar  coordinates ; 
the  trunks  of  trees  became  cyHnders ;  the  limbs  became  skew 
curves  of  higher  order,  on  which  he  sought  to  locate  cusps 
and  nodes ;  the  outlines  of  the  leaves  became  cardioids  and 
other  well-known  loci;  the  birds  in  the  air  described  lem- 
niscates  and  conchoids ;  in  the  flowers  he  saw  roulettes ; 
the  fountain  in  the  park  became  a  paraboloid  of  revolution. 
At  dinner,  the  plates  became  circles;  the  peas  became 
spheres ;  the  butter  became  cubes ;  the  doughnuts  became 
cyclides ;  the  crullers  became  helices ;  the  buns  became  sur- 
faces with  a  double  Hne;  the  piece  of  pie  became  a  sixty- 
degree  sector.  The  boy  was  geometry-mad.  He  saw  geom- 
etry in  everything — in  everything  except  humanity,  and  in 
humanity  he  saw  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHEN    ONE   STUDIES    HARD   ENOUGH    ONE   BEGINS 
TO   SEE  THINGS 

There  was  nothing  extraordinary  about  Paul  Milton's 
insanity.  We  are  all  more  or  less  insane  at  times ;  we  have 
some  mad  hobby  or  other  in  which  we  become  so  completely 
absorbed  as  to  forget  about  those  persons  in  whose  very 
midst  we  live.  We  continue  existing  in  this  state  until  some- 
thing occurs — something  which  suddenly  awakens  us  from 
our  futile  dream  and  brings  us  back  to  our  senses. 

Paul  Milton  had  even  forgotten  about  his  mother.  He 
walked  by  her  letters  on  the  table  in  the  hall.  Miss  Jones 
had  to  bring  them  to  his  room,  where  they  would  sometimes 
remain  on  his  desk  for  several  days  unread.  But  the  widow 
was  never  disturbed  because  he  did  not  write  frequently. 
Her  husband  had  often  become  so  enwrapped  working  over 
his  musical  manuscript  that  at  times  he  seemed  to  ignore 
her,  but  love  her  the  more  ardently  after  he  came  out  of 
his  trance.  She  knew  well  the  trend  of  genius ;  and  her  son's 
seeming  negligence  was,  after  all,  natural  and  necessary. 

Paul  knew  there  were  other  students  rooming  in  the  same 
house,  but  he  had  never  spoken  with  any  of  them.  Why 
should  he  seek  their  acquaintance?  Their  conversation 
would  be  absolutely  ungeometrical. 

Furthermore,  why  should  they  care  to  know  him  ?  They 
would  pass  on  the  stairs  and  in  that  way  were  occasionally 
reminded  of  the  fact  that  some  graduate  student  did  his 
"grinding"  up  there  in  the  attic.  As  long  as  that  "grinding" 
'  did  not  interfere  with  their  affairs,  why  take  notice  of  him? 
Thus  Miss  Jones  was  the  only  one  who  spoke  to  him  as 
he  went  to  or  came  from  his  lectures. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  137 

Aside  from  his  professors,  there  were  only  two  persons 
with  whom  Milton  cared  to  converse :  the  two  graduate  stu- 
dents who  were  taking  the  same  courses  as  he.  All  three 
of  them  ate  at  the  same  table  in  the  boarding  house  and 
talked  of  nothing  but  geometry  across  their  plates.  The 
other  students  were  bored  to  distraction,  but  the  three  geom- 
eters appeared  totally  unaware  of  the  disgust  and  the  ridi- 
cule they  were  provoking.  More  than  once  Milton  left  the 
table  without  having  tasted  his  food.  The  old  colored 
waiter  wondered  how  the  boy  existed  and  used  to  stand 
dumbfounded  by  the  figures  which  he  formed  with  knives, 
forks  and  spoons  to  illustrate  the  theorems  he  was  proving 
to  his  fellow-maniacs. 

Milton  remained  in  his  room  every  evening  save  one — 
one  in  every  two  weeks.  Then  he  would  attend  the  fort- 
nightly meetings  of  the  Mathematical  Club.  The  papers 
presented  at  these  meetings  were  usually  beyond  him,  but 
he  seldom  left  the  lecture  without  having  acquired  a  half 
dozen  or  so  new  conceptions,  and  he  used  to  walk  home 
alone,  often  repeating  to  himself  the  theorems  he  had 
learned. 

One  night,  returning  from  the  Club,  he  was  ascending  the 
stairs  to  his  room  when  he  saw  a  white  form  glide  across  the 
hall.  The  hall  was  only  dimly  lighted  by  the  reflection  from 
the  lamp  on  the  lower  floor.  The  white  form  had  come  out 
of  the  landlady's  room.  Aside  from  his  geometry,  this 
vision  was  the  only  thing  in  several  months  which  had  at- 
tracted his  attention.  He  was  still  thinking  about  it  when 
he  reached  his  room.  He  concluded  at  first  that  it  was 
merely  an  hallucination,  for  he  had  been  working  very  hard 
over  his  books  that  afternoon.  But  even  if  it  were  not  an 
hallucination,  he  decided  not  to  be  disturbed,  for  it  might 
have  been  none  other  than  Miss  Jones  herself,  however 
much  it  resembled  one  of  her  students. 

But,  two  weeks  later  when  he  was  returning  from  the 
meeting  of  the  Club,  he  met  with  the  same  vision  and  ob- 
served quite  clearly  that  it  was  a  student  in  white  pajamas — 
and  not  Miss  Jones — who  had  come  out  of  her  room. 


138  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

This  time  he  could  not  easily  forget  the  incident.  Was 
the  relation  of  the  landlady,  after  all,  that  of  mother  and 
sons?  He  hated  to  think  of  it  as  anything  else.  Even 
though  he  knew  a  boy  had  left  Miss  Jones'  room — even 
though  he  had  touched  him  in  passing,  he  wanted  to  believe 
it  another  hallucination.  He  must  not  study  so  hard.  He 
must  try  to  forget  his  geometry  and  take  long  walks  in  the 
afternoon.  But  with  this  decision,  there  came  suddenly  to 
his  mind  a  remark  which  the  landlady  had  made  earlier  in 
the  year.  "They  have  done  everything  they  possibly  could 
to  make  me  happy,  and  I  do  all  I  possibly  can  to  make  them 
the  same."  The  remark  at  that  time  implied  nothing  extra- 
ordinary, and  yet  it  had  secretly  taken  root  in  his  memory. 
Now  he  could  see  in  it  a  double  meaning. 

He  recalled  how  extremely  kind  she  seemed  that  first 
night,  how  she  had  lingered  on  the  threshold,  and  how  his 
music — Mon  coeur  s'ouvre  a  ta  voix — thrilled  her  through 
and  through.  Then  it  suddenly  flashed  through  him  that 
he  had  never  given  her  a  penny  in  return  for  providing  such 
a  home-like  room.  His  geometry  had  interested  him  so  in- 
tensely that  he  had  completely  forgotten  about  rent.  The 
fact  that  he  had  lived  there  free  of  charge  and  that  she 
was  allowing  him  to  continue  so  without  his  serving  her  by 
mowing  the  lawn  or  firing  the  furnace  began  to  trouble  him. 
In  what  manner  did  she  expect  him  to  repay  her?  What 
were  the  designs  of  this  extremely  kind  landlady ! 

He  paced  the  floor  and  then  sat  down  disgusted  with 
himself  for  having  allowed  such  an  impression  of  this  good- 
hearted  woman  to  occupy  and  disturb  his  mind.  But  it  was 
something  beyond  his  control ;  he  could  not  prevent  thought. 
Another  remark  of  the  landlady  shot  through  his  head. 
"These  glaring  reports  we  hear  about  the  university  are  not 
only  exaggerated,  but  many  of  them  are  false."  Was  she 
defending  the  students?  or  was  she  defending  herself?  Did 
she  know  a  girl  was  hidden  behind  the  piano  that  night? 
What  was  he  to  believe  ?  He  paced  the  floor  again  and  then 
threw  himself  upon  the  bed;  but  he  jumped  up  instantly 
as  though  the  springs  had  suddenly  released  and  hurled  him 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  139 

into  the  air,  for  at  that  moment  an  unbearable  thought 
flamed  across  his  mind:  the  house  in  which  he  now  Hved 
was  another  estabHshment  similar  to  May  Stanley's.  He, 
Paul  Milton,  had  walked  into  it  knowingly,  for  his  very  eyes 
had  seen  that  girl  lowered  from  the  window.  His  room 
seemed  unendurably  hot,  and  the  desk,  the  chairs,  the  stove, 
the  pictures — all  began  to  whirl  about  him;  it  was  May 
Stanley's  dance  over  again.  He  staggered  to  the  bed,  stood 
upon  it,  and  flung  open  the  window  for  air.  The  stars  were 
shining  brilliantly.  He  wished  that  his  mind  were  with 
them,  far,  far  off  in  space,  away  from  the  evil  thoughts 
which  were  tormenting  him — away  from  the  wicked  world 
on  which  he  lived.  Then  he  happened  to  glance  across  the 
street  below.  He  imagined  he  saw  two  green  stars  flashing 
behind  a  lace  curtain — the  eyes  of  the  watchdog  staring 
at  him  from  the  pitch-dark  kennel  and  grinning  fiendishly 
because  he  had  been  lured  and  trapped. 

Was  the  dog  right  after  all  in  his  views  of  university 
life?  Somehow  he  wished  he  were  back  in  Sweeny's  garret. 
Mrs.  Sweeny  was  a  decent  woman;  she  was  clean  morally 
at  least.  It  was  nothing  but  hard  work  that  had  brought 
about  her  physical  unattractiveness.  He  hated  to  think  what 
it  was  that  enabled  Miss  Jones  to  live  so  comfortably  and 
dress  so  well.  He  recalled  how  charming  she  looked  the 
morning  she  was  out  sweeping  her  pavement — the  morning 
she  placed  a  rose  in  Arch  Coddington's  buttonhole.  Arch 
and  she  were  on  friendly  terms ;  that  was  enough  to  convict 
her.  Think  of  it!  in  a  house  with  such  a  woman!  if  he 
could  only  leap  across  the  street  to  his  old  room ! 

And  then  he  thought  of  the  restless  night  he  had  spent 
in  that  room,  and  he  feared  another  such  storm  was  brew- 
ing. He  recalled  how  his  music  had  calmed  him.  He  closed 
the  window,  descended  from  the  bed,  and  pulled  the  violin 
from  under  it.  Two  of  the  strings  were  broken.  He  threw 
the  instrument  back  into  the  case  and  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  tried  to  read  and  study.  His  geometry  might  bring 
him  peace.  He  opened  a  book  and  read  one  line  ten  times, 
but  had  no  idea  of  its  meaning.     The  triangles  seemed  to 


140  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

dance  all  over  the  page;  the  circles  were  going  round  and 
round.  He  closed  the  text  in  despair.  His  eyes  caught  sight 
of  the  thread  models.  He  picked  one  up — the  most  com- 
plicated one  he  had  constructed.  He  had  worked  on  it  for 
several  days.  "What  good  is  this?"  he  asked  himself.  "It 
is  only  a  trap — a  trap  in  which  the  human  mind  is  held 
captive  like  a  mouse,  so  that  the  possessor  of  that  mind 
knows  nothing  of  what  is  happening  about  him."  And  he 
crushed  the  model  ruthlessly  between  his  hands.  Then  he 
took  up  his  violin  again  and  tried  to  play  on  two  strings. 
The  first  note  seemed  to  give  some  reHef.  He  found  an- 
other string  in  the  case.  He  had  not  touched  the  instrument 
for  months.  How  good  it  felt  to  hear  it  again !  How  lov- 
ingly it  spoke  and  sang  to  him  despite  the  fact  that  he  had 
so  cruelly  ignored  it !  For  his  technique  and  his  wonderful 
flowing  legato  had  not  suffered  from  lack  of  practice.  The 
music  was  bringing  perfect  peace  to  his  agitated  soul. 

He  had  just  finished  the  Traumerei  when  he  heard  some 
one  at  his  door.  His  heart  leaped  to  his  throat.  Had  his 
art  awakened  and  aroused  Miss  Jones?  Miss  Jones  com- 
ing to  his  room  at  this  hour!  He  alone  with  that  woman! 
He  would  rather  draw  the  bolt  and  not  admit  her.  The 
knock  was  repeated.    He  managed  to  say  come  in. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  student  in  white  pajamas  and 
moccasins  entered  the  room.  It  was  the  same  boy  whom 
he  had  seen  coming  out  of  the  landlady's  bedchamber. 

"I  just  came  up  to  hear  that  music,"  he  said.  "It  is 
certainly  wonderful.     My  name  is  Hollis — Harold  Hollis." 

The  boy  held  out  his  hand.  Milton  took  it  rather  re- 
luctantly, but  he  found  much  that  was  trustworthy  and 
honorable  in  the  grasp. 

"I  hope  you  don't  object  to  my  attending  your  concert 
deshabille/'  said  the  boy,  smiling  and  disclosing  his  white 
teeth,  which  sparkled  like  the  eyes  above  them. 

"Not  at  all,"  responded  Milton,  who  could  not  help 
admiring  the  clean-looking  youth,  in  spite  of  the  doubt 
which  was  hovering  over  his  own  mind. 

"Had  I  known  you  played  the  violin,  I  would  have  been 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  141 

up  to  see  you  long  before  this,"  said  Mollis.  "I  love  music 
— I  mean  good  music ;  and  you  know  how  to  play  it.  How 
does  it  come  you  never  tuned  up  before  tonight?" 

"I  have  been  too  busy  with  my  work,"  was  the  answer. 

"What  in  the  deuce  are  these?"  inquired  the  boy,  as  he 
picked  up  one  of  the  string  constructions  on  the  desk. 

"They  are  thread  models  illustrating  certain  theorems 
in  Higher  Geometry,"  said  Milton. 

"Did  you  make  them  ?"  he  asked,  examining  closely. 

"Yes." 

"You're  some  genius.  You  are  certainly  going  to  make 
your  mark  some  day.  I  wish  I  were  half  as  sure  of  hitting 
mine." 

"You  will  if  you  aim  in  the  right  direction,"  said  Milton. 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Hollis.  He  seemed  to  meditate,  and 
then  he  added :    "I'm  only  a  freshman ;  what  class  are  you  ?'* 

"I'm  a  graduate  student ;  I  graduated  from  this  univer- 
sity last  year." 

"With  Arch  Coddington's  class,"  said  the  boy  quickly. 
"Did  you  know  Arch?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul,  thinking  how  queer  it  was  that 
this  boy  should  mention  first  the  name  of  the  only  man  in 
his  own  class  whom  he  really  knew ! 

Tine  fellow — don't  you  think  so?"  asked  HoUis. 

How  should  Milton  answer  ?    Yes  or  No  ? 

"He  was  very  well  liked  by  most  of  his  classmates," 
was  the  fortunate  reply. 

"He  is  a  very  close  friend  of  mine,"  admitted  the  boy. 

The  teeth  of  doubt,  which  were  gnawing  at  Milton's 
mind,  seemed  to  sink  in  deeply  with  this  remark.  Hollfs 
and  Coddington  were  friends — Miss  Jones  and  Coddington 
were  friends.  Two  persons  who  are  friends  of  a  third  per- 
son are  friends  of  each  other. 

"Does  Arch  know  that  you  have  come  back  again  this 
year  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Milton. 

"I  shall  have  to  write  about  it  and  tell  him  I've  met  you. 
I  know  we  are  going  to  be  good  friends — you  and  I.    Music 


142  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

always  draws  me  on.    Do  you  know  that  song  from  Samson 
and  Delilah— My  Heart  At  Thy  Sweet  Voice?" 

Miss  Jones'  favorite!    Had  she  told  him  about  it?    And 
yet  HoUis  had  said  he  did  not  know  of  Milton's  violin. 

"Yes ;  I  know  that  song,"  said  Milton,  awakening  from 
his  debate. 

"Please  play  it  for  me." 

Milton  did  not  care  to  "thrill"  Miss  Jones  in  the  room 
below. 

"There  are  only  three  strings  on  my  violin,"  he  replied, 
by  way  of  excuse. 

"Well,  let  me  hear  it  as  far  as  they'll  take  you,  and  I 
shall  fill  in  the  other  notes,"  suggested  Hollis. 

It  was  hard  to  decHne.  Milton  tuned  his  violin,  and 
began  the  aria,  which,  as  the  reader  may  know,  begins  with 
deep,  sonorous,  meditative  strains  gradually  working  up 
to  an  amorous  cHmax.  Hollis,  lying  on  the  cot,  his  arms 
under  his  head,  half-closed  his  eyes  as  if  in  a  dream.  Was 
he  thinking  of  Allaine?  Then  as  the  music  became  more 
and  more  emotional,  he  stood  up  and  joined  his  accom- 
panist, singing  in  a  baritone,  which  was  wondrously  rich  and 
flexible.  But  it  was  not  the  passionate  voice  of  a  burning 
Delilah;  it  was  rather  like  the  pure  sweet  voice  of  a  choir 
boy.  Indeed,  as  Harold  stood  before  the  vioHnist  in  his 
white  night  clothes,  Milton  could  think  of  him  as  nothing 
other  than  an  angel.  The  vision — for  Milton,  dreamer  that 
he  was,  considered  it  only  a  vision — impressed  him  much 
the  same  as  Allaine  Bennett  had  impressed  the  widow  the 
night  she  stood  at  the  side  of  Paul's  cot  in  the  little  cottage 
at  Norford.  Paul,  like  his  mother,  also  imagined  God  had 
sent  a  comforting  angel.  It  began  to  pain  him  that  he  had 
suspected  the  boy  and  falsely  judged  his  character.  He 
wanted  to  take  Hollis  in  his  arms  there  and  then.  He  loved 
him  from  that  moment  on,  and  in  case  he  had  done  wrong, 
he  wanted  to  shield  and  guide  him. 

Just  as  they  finished  the  song.  Miss  Jones  opened  the 
door  and  appeared  before  them  in  her  kimono,  clapping 
her  hands  in  ecstasy. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  143 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  beautiful — magnificent^ 
glorious !" 

Milton  stood  gasping,  but  HoUis  seemed  very  calm. 
That  this  woman  and  this  boy,  attired  as  they  were,  should 
appear  before  each  other  and  before  him  without  the  slight- 
est embarrassment  was  something  Paul  Milton  could  not 
understand.  He  at  once  felt  that  his  suspicion  was  correct. 
What  he  had  seen  was  not  an  hallucination  but  a  reality. 
And  then  Miss  Jones  walked  to  the  cot,  sat  down  with 
Hollis  and  tenderly  pushed  the  hair  back  from  his  fore- 
head. Milton  felt  the  blood  freeze  within  him.  Such  an 
open  display  of  wantonness !  How  could  Hollis  permit  this 
disgusting  woman — this  lascivious  Delilah — ^to  fondle  him! 

"I  am  so  glad  we  all  know  each  other  at  last,"  said  Miss 
Jones.  "I  was  reluctant  about  introducing  you  to  Harold; 
it  seemed  you  were  always  so  busy,  and  I  did  not  wish  to 
disturb  you.  Had  Harold  known  earlier  that  you  played 
the  violin,  he  would  have  given  you  no  rest.  Both  of  us 
are  so  fond  of  music.  It  runs  in  the  family.  Harold's 
mother  was  my  sister;  she  died  a  few  years  ago,"  added 
Miss  Jones  sadly. 

Milton  fell  back  in  the  Morris  chair.  He  wanted  to 
speak,  but  he  could  not;  the  last  remark  of  the  landlady 
came  as  a  sunstroke  from  a  dark  sky. 

"Isn't  it  fortunate  for  him,"  she  continued,  "to  be  able 
to  come  to  a  college  in  a  town  where  his  Aunt  Clarabelle 
lives.  She  can  take  such  good  care  of  him — just  as  his 
own  mother  would  have  done.  But  I  take  care  of  all  my 
boys  in  just  the  same  way;  and  by  making  a  real  home,  I 
keep  them  off  the  streets  and  out  of  the  taverns,  and  in  this 
way  maintain  their  interest  in  books.  Harold  came  up  to 
see  you  tonight  without  my  permission.  He  would  stay  all 
night  so  long  as  you  played  for  him.  I  thought  I  had  bet- 
ter come  up  and  send  him  back  to  bed.  He  is  keeping  you 
up  or,  perhaps,  away  from  your  work.  We  will  both  come 
to  hear  another  concert  sometime  again  when  it  is  more 
convenient." 

She  arose  and  walked  toward  the  door. 


144  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

"Come  along,  Harold,"  she  added. 

Harold  followed. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  obey  Aunt  Clarabelle,"  said 
Hollis,  with  a  smile,  his  eyes  twinkling  merrily,  "but  I  am 
mighty  glad  to  have  met  you.    Good  night." 

And  he  took  Milton's  hand  and  held  it  with  a  grasp 
which  proved  convincingly  to  Milton  that  the  boy  was 
honorable. 

"Good  night,"  said  Miss  Jones,  as  she  walked  down  the 
stairs  with  her  arm  across  the  boy's  shoulders. 

"Good  night,"  said  Milton. 

He  listened,  and  heard  two  doors  closing — first  the  land- 
lady's at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  then  the  door  to  Hollis' 
room  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  He  closed  his  own  door 
happily,  undressed,  and  extinguished  the  lamp.  The  visit 
of  Miss  Jones  and  her  nephew  had  removed  the  faintest 
shadow  of  suspicion  from  his  mind.  How  often  he  him- 
self, dressed  in  pajamas,  had  tiptoed  into  his  own  mother's 
room  to  kiss  her  good  night !  and  if  she  were  to  die  and  if 
he  were  to  live  with  a  dear  kind  aunt,  would  he  not  treat 
her  with  the  same  affection ! 

The  moonlight  fell  through  the  high  windows  upon  his 
bed.  He  knelt  there  and  prayed  that  God  might  prevent  the 
future  visitation  of  evil  brooding  upon  his  mind,  that  God 
might  check  and  destroy  the  growth  of  poisonous  thought- 
seeds,  which  the  attempted  but  unsuccessful  escapade  with 
Arch  Coddington  had  planted  in  his  head  and  which  later 
experiences  were  tending  to  nourish. 

And  he  slept  soundly,  for  God  did  send  him  relief — 
temporarily. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HOLLIS    AND    DE    SOTO 

The  next  day  Milton  was  at  his  work  again,  happy  that 
he  Hved  in  a  house  where  the  landlady  was  so  good  and 
kind,  happy  that  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Harold 
Hollis,  happy  that  he  had  again  found  interest  in  his  geom- 
etry— for  he  was  reconstructing  the  thread  model  which  he 
had  destroyed,  because  it  was  the  most  beautiful  one  of 
his  entire  collection.  How  glad  he  was  to  see  it  brought 
back  to  life  again ! 

A  few  days  later  he  was  asked  to  present,  before  the 
Mathematical  Club,  a  paper  on  a  topic  which  was  left  to 
his  own  discretion.  He  at  once  thought  of  his  string  con- 
structions. His  name  and  his  subject  appeared  on  the  uni- 
versity bulletin.  He  carried  the  models  to  the  lecture  hall 
in  his  suitcase;  he  had  so  many  that  it  was  necessary  to 
make  several  trips.  He  exhibited  the  collection  before  a 
large  audience  of  faculty  and  graduate  students  and  ex- 
plained the  theory  which  determined  the  method  of  struc- 
ture.    His  work  was  warmly  applauded. 

After  the  meeting,  on  his  way  to  his  room,  he  stopped 
before  Harold  Hollis'  door.  The  success  of  his  paper  had 
thrown  him  into  a  joyous  mood,  which  he  wanted  to  share 
with  the  boy  whom  he  longed  to  know  as  a  very  close 
friend.  Hollis  had  not  called  at  Milton's  room  since  the 
night  he  and  his  aunt  were  there.  Milton  had  not  invited 
them  to  another  concert ;  he  was  again  lost  in  his  geometry, 
and  his  violin  had  been  buried  in  its  casket  under  the  bed. 
If  Milton  wished  another  visit  from  Hollis,  he  believed  that 
the  first  one  must  be  returned. 

Milton  had  never  called  on  any  boys  in  Miss  Jones' 


146  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

house,  but  now  he  not  only  felt  that  he  owed  Hollis  a  call 
but  that  he  really  wanted  to  make  it.  And  yet  he  hesitated 
before  entering.  As  he  stood  there  trying  to  decide  whether 
or  not  to  knock,  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  Hollis,  on 
his  way  out,  almost  collided  with  him. 

"I  was  just  going  to  drop  in  and  see  you,"  said  Milton. 

"Oh!"  exdaimed  Hollis,  "is  it  you?  Come  right  in.  I 
didn't  recognize  you  at  first ;  the  hall  is  always  so  dark.  I  was 
just  on  my  way  to  your  room  to  see  you  about  a  problem  in 
Analyt.  I  had  about  given  it  up  and  was  ready  to  go  to  bed 
when  I  thought  you  might  be  willing  to  give  me  a  lift." 

"Gladly,"  said  Milton,  removing  his  overcoat. 

Hollis  was  in  his  pajamas  and  moccasins,  just  as  we  had 
met  him  before.  He  drew  up  a  chair  to  his  desk  and  asked 
Milton  to  sit  down  before  the  open  textbook. 

"It  is  this  one :"  said  Hollis,  "to  prove  that  the  area  of 
the  triangle  formed  by  the  two  coordinate  axes  and  a  tang- 
ent to  the  equilateral  hyperbola  is  constant." 

"How  far  have  you  worked  it?"  asked  Milton. 

Hollis  searched  through  some  loose  papers  on  his  desk 
until  he  found  one  covered  with  equations. 

"That's  as  far  as  I  can  get,"  he  admitted,  pointing  to  his 
result. 

"That's  as  far  as  is  necessary." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  expression  for  the  area,  but  I  don't 
see  why  it  is  constant." 

"Because  the  point  of  contact  lies  on  the  curve,  and  its 
coordinates  must  therefore  satisfy  the  original  equation," 
said  Milton. 

"What  a  dunce  I  was  not  to  see  that  myself,"  said  Hollis, 
rapping  his  knuckles  against  his  head. 

Hollis,  of  course,  was  by  no  means  a  dunce.  He  was 
brilliant;  he  had  simply  overlooked  this  condition. 

"You  don't  mind  my  coming  up  to  ask  you  a  question 
now  and  then  ?  I  get  stuck  occasionally,  but  not  very  often," 
he  admitted. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  help  you  out,"  said  Milton,  "any  time 
you  wish." 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  147 

"Do  you  like  roasted  chestnuts  ?"  asked  Hollis,  preparing 
to  repay  Milton  for  his  service. 

'*Yes." 

Hollis  disappeared  behind  the  portieres,  which  were 
drawn  across  the  alcove,  and  then  appeared  again  with  a 
paper  bag  and  a  corn  popper. 

"Let's  just  sit  here  on  the  floor,"  suggested  HolHs. 

Milton  lost  no  time  in  obeying.  Hollis  was  soon  on  his 
knees  before  the  fireplace,  roasting  the  chestnuts  over  the 
smouldering  logs  in  the  grate.  Milton  could  not  refrain 
from  admiring  the  boy's  face.  The  brilliant  red  glow  of  the 
embers  was  reflected  in  the  clear  whites  of  his  eyes,  and  his 
cheeks  soon  began  to  bloom  like  roses  coloring  under  the 
warmth  of  June  sunshine.  The  white  coat,  buttoned  snugly 
about  his  throat,  and  the  lock  of  brown  hair,  which  fell  over 
his  smooth  forehead,  both  helped  by  contrast  to  offset  his 
ruddy  countenance.  His  pajamas  covered  but  did  not  conceal 
his  square  shoulders  and  his  rounded  chest;  physically  he 
seemed  perfect.    It  was  a  picture  Milton  always  remembered. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Arch  Coddington  today,"  said  Har- 
old, as  he  continued  to  shake  the  nuts. 

The  name  Coddington  awakened  Milton  from  his  rev- 
erie. The  fact  that  Coddington  and  Hollis  were  friends 
was  somewhat  disturbing — the  only  unpleasant  information 
he  had  gathered  from  the  boy. 

"You  remember,  I  said  I  was  going  to  write  to  him 
about  you,"  added  the  freshman. 

Milton  began  to  feel  uneasy.  He  never  knew  definitely 
whether  or  not  May  Stanley  had  taken  Coddington's  money 
that  night — the  money  in  payment  of  Milton's  "initiation." 
Perhaps  she  had  given  Coddington  the  impression  that  she 
had  been  successful  with  her  "new  customer."  Perhaps 
Coddington  had  written  about  it  to  Hollis,  and  Hollis  was 
now  judging  him  accordingly.  But  was  not  the  boy  justi- 
fied when  he  himself  had  judged  Hollis,  and  judged  him 
falsely  too. 

"He  mentioned  your  playing,"  continued  Hollis,  "and 
something  else  which  I  myself  don't  care  to  hear." 


148  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

Milton  at  once  concluded  that  May  Stanley  had  be- 
trayed him,  and  he  resolved  to  tell  HoUis  the  whole  story. 

"What  is  the  something  else  you  don't  care  to  hear?" 
asked  Milton  openly,  ready  to  defend  himself. 

^'Ragtime,"  answered  HoUis. 

Milton  quickly  forgot  about  May  Stanley.     - 

"I  get  so  tired  of  it,  but  Arch  is  ragtime-crazy,"  added 
the  boy. 

''Yes ;  so  I  discovered." 

"It  is  such  wild  lawless  stuff — just  like  Arch  himself," 
said  Hollis.  "But  Arch  is  a  good  fellow  nevertheless.  It 
was  through  him  that  I  got  a  room  in  this  house — the 
rooms  are  all  reserved  in  advance  as  you  know." 

It  puzzled  Milton  that  Coddington  should  have  to  re- 
serve a  room  for  Hollis  in  a  house  where  his  own  aunt  was 
landlady,  but  Hollis'  next  remark  dispelled  the  doubt  before 
it  had  time  to  take  root. 

"Of  course  Aunt  Clarabelle  would  have  had  one  for  me 
anyhow,  but  Arch  didn't  know  she  was  my  aunt — not  until 
later.  However,  Arch  has  helped  me  attain  a  lot  of  other 
things  in  which  Aunt  Clarabelle  has  no  influence." 

Milton,  at  that  moment,  saw  the  firelight  reflected  from 
a  pin  on  the  boy's  pajamas.  He  had  not  noticed  it  before, 
but  now  at  once  realized  it  was  the  insignia  of  the  fraternity 
which  Coddington  and  Tom  Kuhler  had  made — also  Mr. 
Bennett,  as  the  reader  has  already  learned.  The  thought 
of  May  Stanley  again  returned  to  his  mind,  and  with  it  her 
denouncement  of  this  same  brotherhood:  "When  a  fellow 
gets  in  with  that  bunch  it's  good-bye  to  his  virginity." 

"Do  you  like  your  chestnuts  well  done?"  asked  Hollis, 
as  he  scattered  them  upon  the  hearth.  "Try  some  of  these — 
be  careful ;  they  are  hot." 

Milton  took  one  and  cooled  it  by  passing  it  from  one 
hand  to  the  other.  He  opened  it,  ate  the  meat,  and  threw 
the  shell  into  the  fire,  where  it  squirmed  and  writhed  under 
the  heat  which  quickly  consumed  it,  leaving  only  a  gray 
weightless  powder.  And  he  wondered  if  Hollis  would  be 
able  to  resist  the  temptation  which  was  undeniably  lying 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  149 

in  wait  for  him,  or  would  he  also  be  consumed  like  the 
helpless  shell  which  had  been  tossed  among  the  hungry- 
flames. 

His  attachment  to  the  boy  seemed  to  grow  as  the  even- 
ing wore  on,  and  he  began  to  feel  that  it  was  not  only  his 
desire  but  his  duty  to  warn  and  save  him.  His  Aunt  Clara- 
belle  would  have  little  influence  when  he  left  her  to  live 
in  his  new  quarters  at  the  fraternity  house.  Milton  tried 
hard  to  know  Hollis  would  stand  the  test,  but  he  believed 
a  warning  thrown  out  in  advance  might  make  the  fight  eas- 
ier for  him.  His  aunt  would  probably  say  nothing  by  way 
of  admonition.  She  was  a  staunch  optimist  in  regard  to 
the  student  morale.  True,  the  boy  was  remarkably  well 
preserved;  his  own  father  had  very  likely  counseled  him 
just  as  Milton's  mother  had  counseled  her  son.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  it  was  unnecessary  to  mention  the  matter. 

Hollis  continued  to  eat  chestnuts.  He  was  aware  of  the 
fact  that  Milton  had  seen  the  pin,  and  he  noticed  the  medi- 
tating silence  that  followed  the  observation. 

"Are  you  interested  in  girls?"  asked  Hollis,  hoping  to 
awaken  the  dreamer. 

"No,"  answered  Milton. 

"Neither  was  I  until  I  met  this  one,"  added  Hollis,  as 
he  reached  for  a  framed  photograph  on  the  mantelpiece  over 
the  fire.  It  was  a  photograph  of  Allaine  Bennett  which  he 
had  secretly  carried  away  from  Willow  Lodge.  "I  should 
Hke  to  know  what  you  think  of  her;  all  the  fellows  say 
she  is  a  beauty." 

Milton  turned  the  photograph  toward  the  firelight.  The 
face  was  unknown  to  him.  He  had  not  seen  Allaine  Ben- 
nett since,  when  as  a  little  girl,  she  had  presented  him  with 
the  invitation  to  her  party.  Nevertheless  the  face  influenced 
him  strongly  and  strangely.  The  eyes,  it  seemed,  were  im- 
ploring him  to  save  the  boy  at  his  side. 

"She  looks  like  a  girl  of  considerable  influence,"  said 
Milton. 

"Influence  in  what  way?"  asked  Hollis. 

"Influence  in  the  way  of  keeping  a  man  straight — influ- 


I50  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

ence  in  the  way  of  keeping  a  boy  from  doing  what  he 
should  not  do." 

'That  is  just  why  I  keep  her  constantly  before  me.  I 
expect  to  win  her  as  wife  some  day — win  her  by  working 
for  some  good  and  great  purpose,"  said  Hollis. 

These  words — "good  and  great  purpose" — delighted 
Paul  unfathomably. 

"She  is  a  girl  whom  a  fellow  wouldn't  dare  marry  unless 
he  felt  that  he  really  deserved  her — that  he  was  worthy. 
There's  something  more  to  her  than  mere  good  looks ; 
she  sees  a  real  object  in  life.  She  is  striving  to  uplift 
and  make  cleaner  the  wretched  souls  of  the  settlements. 
She  is  a  wonderful  girl,  and  if  I  don't  win  her  eventu- 
ally by  helping  along  some  good  cause,  I  shall  never  be 
happy." 

Milton  looked  at  the  photograph  again,  thinking  what  a 
wonderful  girl  she  must  be  to  influence  a  boy  as  she  had 
influenced  Harold  HolHs;  and  the  one  desire  on  his  own 
mind  was  that  this  youth  and  this  maiden  should  some  day 
be  happily  united. 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  much  I  have  enjoyed  my  little  visit," 
said  Paul,  as  he  rose  from  the  floor  and  placed  the  photo- 
graph carefully  on  the  mantelshelf. 

"Take  some  of  these  with  you,"  said  Hollis;  and  he 
gathered  a  handful  of  chestnuts  from  the  hearth  and  emp- 
tied them  into  Milton's  pocket. 

"Thanks  ever  so  much,"  said  Milton. 

The  two  boys  clasped  hands  warmly. 

After  the  door  was  closed,  Hollis  walked  to  the  fireplace, 
took  down  the  picture  of  AUaine  Bennett,  looked  at  it  lov- 
ingly, and  then  returned  it  to  its  place.  He  gazed  into  the 
dying  embers,  wondering  why  he  had  discovered  Paiil  Mil- 
ton just  outside  his  door  that  evening.  Then  he  walked 
to  his  desk,  unlocked  a  drawer,  took  out  a  letter,  and  reread 
the  following  lines: 

"The  main  fault  with  Milton  is  that  he's  too  damn  good. 
Even  May  Stanley  couldn't  warm  him  up.  He's  a  virgin, 
and  he  will  probably  try  to  make  a  goody-goody  out  of  you. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  151 

Don't  let  him  do  it,  old  boy;  don't  let  him  keep  you  away 
from  your  fun." 

Hollis  extinguished  the  desklamp  and  left  his  room. 

How  glad  Milton  was  he  had  visited  Harold  Hollis  that 
night  and  had  met  this  girl  whose  influence  was  keeping 
him  upright  and  true !  The  visit  had  completely  vindicated 
Hollis,  by  wiping  out  the  last  trace  of  the  earher  suspicion 
under  which  Milton  had  placed  him. 

But  the  evening  spent  in  the  freshman's  room  had  also 
awakened  a  broader  spirit  in  Paul  Milton — the  spirit  to 
associate  with  his  fellow-men.  He  began  to  realize  how 
much  he  had  missed  in  his  own  undergraduate  days  be- 
cause he  had  so  isolated  himself  from  others.  There  had 
been,  no  doubt,  many  boys  like  Harold  Hollis  in  Milton's 
own  class.  He  would  have  discovered  them  had  he  made 
the  effort.  He  began  to  think  he  had  been  deprived  of  one 
of  the  best  features  of  a  university  education.  And  yet 
that  would  have  been  denied  him  even  if  he  had  desired  it ; 
for  his  time  had  been  completely  taken  up  by  his  books 
and  the  various  chores  which  earned  him  his  food,  clothing 
and  shelter.  It  was  true  that  he  had  given  many  leisure 
hours  to  his  violin,  which  he  might  have  spent  socially  be- 
fore the  fireplaces  of  his  classmates;  but  why  muse  over 
opportunities  which  are  past  and  irrevocable?  And  after 
all,  perhaps  it  was  best  so,  for  had  he  known  his  classmates 
better,  he  might  have  neglected  his  studies.  He  certainly 
would  not  have  captured  all  the  honors  and  prizes  at  the 
end  of  his  senior  year,  and  had  he  not  won  those,  it  might 
have  discouraged  the  awarding  of  free  scholarships  by  the 
alumni.  If  he  had  merely  graduated  as  Coddington  had 
done,  what  impression  would  that  have  made  ?  None ;  thou- 
sands do  that. 

There  was  one  thought  which  pleased  him  above  all 
others — the  fact  that  he  deserved  all  that  he  received,  and 
had  it  not  been  for  the  hard  though  selfish  study  which 
earned  it,  he  would  never  have  been  the  recipient  of  the 
second   free  scholarship   from  the   faculty,   and   therefore 


152  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

would  not  have  returned  to  the  university  to  meet  Harold 
HoUis.    Was  fate  such  a  cruel  thing  after  all? 

Milton's  father,  as  we  know,  had  died  when  his  son  was 
yet  a  mere  baby.  Paul  had  never  known  what  fellowship 
with  one's  father  meant.  There  was  only  his  mother  to 
whom  he  might  speak,  and  he  remained  constantly  at  her 
side.  Now  he  wished  and  longed  for  a  brother — one  like 
Harold  Hollis.  He  loved  Harold  devotedly.  He  did  not 
know  just  how  Hollis  felt  toward  him,  and  yet,  judging 
from  the  hospitality  and  the  friendliness  with  which  he  had 
been  entertained,  he  believed  the  boy  was  not  altogether 
displeased  by  his  company.  The  violin  had,  after  all,  played 
its  part  and  played  it  well.  It  had  brought  two  boys  to  him 
— two  boys  who  were  widely  different  in  character — two 
boys  who  had  opened  new  avenues  in  Milton's  life.  He, 
Milton,  now  stood  between  them;  for  Coddington  had 
pointed  out  to  Milton  the  very  trap  from  which  Milton 
must  save  Hollis,  his  brother. 

But  to  Milton,  Hollis  became  a  representative  rather 
than  an  individual.  He  thought  there  must  be  more  like 
him, — many  more, — and  he  wanted  to  know  them.  There 
was  in  Milton  a  perfect  seed  of  fraternal  love  which  was 
only  now  beginning  to  sprout  and  blossom.  Deeply  as  he 
loved  Harold  Hollis,  he  was  capable  of  loving  hundreds  of 
boys  with  the  same  depth  and  sincerity ;  for  Hollis  was  but 
a  symbol  for  the  entire  student-body.  He  wanted  to  do  as 
much  for  the  boys  as  Miss  Jones  was  doing  for  her  stu- 
dents. He  wanted  to  help  keep  them  upright  and  studious. 
At  the  same  time  he  would  not  lose  interest  in  his  geometry, 
but  go  at  it  more  sanely.  He  began  to  see  something  more 
than  geometrical  configurations  as  he  walked  along  the 
streets;  he  began  to  see  humanity.  He  was  interested  in 
the  face  of  each  student  he  met.  He  noticed  several  boys 
who  influenced  him  just  as  strongly  as  the  youth  in  his  own 
house,  and  he  longed  to  know  them,  to  meet  them,  to  con- 
verse with  them,  to  love  them  as  he  loved  Harold  Hollis. 
He  wanted  to  form  instantly  all  the  friendships  which  he 
had  allowed  to  pass.    How  could  he  reach  these  boys  ?    He 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  153 

longed  to  live  his  undergraduate  days  over  again.  It  seemed 
all  his  classmates  had  returned  to  the  university.  He  wanted 
to  stroll  with  them  about  town.  He  wanted  to  take  part  in 
the  games  they  were  playing  on  the  campus.  He  wanted 
to  frequent  each  entry  of  the  dormitory  and  stop  in  every 
room.  He  wanted  to  participate  in  the  singing  of  the  col- 
lege glees.  He  wanted  to  join  the  story-telling  circles 
around  the  blazing  wood  fires.  He  yearned  to  be  closer, 
to  lounge  with  them  among  the  pillows  on  their  window- 
seats,  to  cuddle  up  and  feel  the  pure  warmth  of  their  hearts 
against  his  own. 

But  alas;  they  never  felt  that  his  heart  as  well  as  his 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  them — they  scarcely  noticed  him  as 
he  passed.  There  was  a  gulf  between  these  boys  and  Paul 
Milton.  He  could  not  do  the  things  he  wanted  to  do ;  some- 
thing held  him  back.  Perhaps  he  would  only  bring  dis- 
favor upon  himself  by  trying  to  establish  the  associations 
which  he  had  lost  and  which  fate  seemed  to  deny  him.  So 
he  sat  alone  in  his  little  room,  and  the  only  thing  there  in  any 
way  resembling  a  human  companion  was  his  own  shadow, 
which  the  little  gas-stove  cast  upon  the  wall.  HoUis  came 
up  to  see  him  but  only  seldom,  and  the  short  visits  merely 
served  to  intensify  his  longing  and  darken  the  hours  which 
followed  them.  He  was  a  vessel  overflowing  with  true  fra- 
ternal devotion,  and  yet  there  was  none  flowing  into  it.  To 
love  and  cherish  but  receive  nothing  in  return — that  seemed 
his  destiny. 

But  with  the  approach  of  Spring  a  ray  of  sunshine  came 
into  the  loneliness  of  his  soul. 

The  impression  which  he  had  made  with  his  collection 
of  models  at  the  Mathematical  Club  lasted  longer  than  one 
evening.  Toward  the  end  of  the  college  year,  Milton's 
professor  called  him  into  the  oflice  to  praise  his  work,  tell- 
ing him  that  the  construction  of  the  models  and  the  expla- 
nation of  it  proved  he  had  the  ability  to  teach. 

**We  will  need  an  assistant  to  help  us  with  our  instruc- 
tion next  year,"  said  the  professor.    "The  classes  are  grow- 


154  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

ing  too  large  to  be  managed  conveniently  by  the  present 
number  of  our  faculty.  Do  you  think  you  would  like  to 
try  your  hand  at  teaching?" 

"It  would  be  a  wonderful  experience,"  was  Milton's 
affirmation. 

"Of  course,"  added  the  professor,  "while  we  expect  to 
have  our  teaching  done  well  and  efficiently,  nevertheless  you 
must  not  let  it  interfere  with  your  graduate  studies;  we 
must  not  lose  interest  in  them.  The  teaching  will  amount 
to  only  a  few  hours  a  week — perhaps  three  or  four.  The 
subject  will  be  an  elementary  one;  it  will  not  require  much 
time  for  preparation  on  your  part.  We  shall  use  every 
possible  means  to  arrange  your  teaching-schedule  so  that 
it  will  not  interfere  with  your  attendance  at  lectures.  You 
know  we  are  expecting  great  things  of  you  in  mathematical 
research." 

"I  trust  my  work  will  come  up  to  these  expectations," 
said  Milton. 

"I  don't  doubt  that  in  the  least,"  said  the  professor, 
"but,  at  the  same  time,  teaching  has  spoiled  the  career  of 
many  a  promising  graduate  student;  I  think  it  best  that 
you  should  know  this  in  advance.  Research,  you  under- 
stand, is  the  main  thing  nowadays ;  there  are  already  more 
than  enough  good  teachers.  The  university  expects  each 
member  of  its  faculty  to  contribute  several  papers  annually 
to  the  scientific  journals.  The  man  who  doesn't  give  most 
of  his  attention  to  original  investigation  will  never  amount 
to  a  row  of  pins." 

The  professor  picked  up  a  few  of  the  loose  sheets  of 
paper  which  were  scattered  over  his  desk. 

"I  am  working  up  an  article  myself,"  he  continued,  as 
he  glanced  over  the  rims  of  his  spectacles,  "and  the  extension 
and  the  more  detailed  treatment  of  several  topics  therein  will 
serve  for  the  subject-matter  of  your  Doctor's  Thesis.  We 
older  men  often  pass  over  things  of  minor  interest,  leaving 
them  for  the  younger  scholars  like  yourself  to  solve." 

"Have  I  studied  far  enough  to  enable  me  to  understand 
your  work  ?"  asked  the  boy. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  155 

"Oh!  my  no,  my  no,"  ejaculated  the  professor,  with  a 
superior  air  of  importance,  "my  work  is  far — very  far — 
in  advance  of  anything  which  has  ever  been  done  along 
this  line.  The  great  geometers  of  the  past  never  dreamed 
of  it,  and  their  investigations,  which  are  as  yet  unknown 
to  you  and  of  which  my  work  is  both  a  generaHzation  and 
a  correction,  are  very  elementary  indeed  compared  with  the 
results  which  I  have  obtained." 

The  professor  cleared  his  throat  and  curled  his  mustache 
on  the  ends  of  his  fingers.  Milton  felt  he  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  some  great  dignitary. 

"But,"  added  the  scientist,  "at  this  time  next  year  you 
will  have  had  sufficient  preparation  to  enable  you  to  out- 
line your  dissertation — ^that  is,  the  part  of  my  work 
which  seems  too  trivial  to  concern  one  in  my  position. 
When  you  grow  older  and  more  experienced,  you  will 
feel  the  same  way  toward  certain  parts  of  your  own  re- 
searches— ^and  your  teaching.  Your  teaching  will  become 
purely  mechanical :  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  day  you  will 
meet  your  undergraduates  just  like  a  farmer  who,  at  a 
fixed  time  every  morning,  throws  out  a  measureful  of  corn 
to  a  flock  of  geese  and  then  goes  on  to  something  more  im- 
portant." 

The  professor  smiled  at  his  own  simile.  He  expected 
Milton  to  do  the  same,  but  he  was  disappointed.  He  then 
felt  that  he  had  spoken  too  lightly  of  teaching  before  the 
new  assistant,  and  he  undertook  to  modify  the  impression 
made  by  his  former  remarks. 

"Don't  get  the  idea  that  I  do  not  care  or  never  have 
cared  to  teach,"  he  said.  "It  was  not  that  I  disliked  it  that 
I  gradually  forsook  it.  Brutus  did  not  slay  Caesar  because 
he  disliked  him ;  he  slew  him  because  he  loved  Rome  more. 
So  it  is  in  my  case:  not  that  I  love  teaching  less  but  that 
I  love  research  more.  Research  and  Rome !  Two  wonder- 
ful empires,  rising,  spreading,  advancing !" 

The  professor  accompanied  his  awe-inspiring  analogy 
with  appropriate  gestures.  Milton  remained  silent,  but 
thoughtful;   and  while  drinking  in   all  of   this  bombastic 


156  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

grandiloquence  he  was,  at  the  same  time,  making  a  close 
study  of  the  source  from  which  it  sprang. 

"The  salary  will,  of  course,  be  small  at  the  start — the 
four  hours  a  week  will  probably  bring  you  no  more  than 
a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  for  the  year.  But  later  on, 
after  you  have  spent  a  year  or  so  abroad  and  have  become 
active  in  research,  the  university  will  reward  you  with  a 
couple  of  thousand  dollars  for  your  discoveries  and  investi- 
gations. Well,"  said  the  scientist,  feeling  that  he  was  losing 
precious  time,  "shall  we  call  it  settled  then  ?  You  will  be  one 
of  our  teaching-staff  next  year?" 

Milton  at  once  agreed  to  take  the  position,  and  seeing 
that  the  professor  was  eager  to  resume  work,  he  backed 
out  of  the  office.  The  investigator  at  once  bent  over  his 
desk,  and,  holding  his  pen  very  tightly  between  his  fingers, 
he  looked  very  much  like  a  child  amusing  itself  by  drawing 
pictures  of  airships  and  soap  bubbles. 

Professor  Ambroise  De  Soto — for  that  was  the  name 
of  the  great  geometer — was  a  man  of  very  small  stature. 
His  complexion  was  sallow  from  overapplication  to  his 
work,  but  his  eyes  were  sharp  enough  to  penetrate  the  bottle 
of  Higgin's  Eternal  Ink  with  which  he  recorded  the  thoughts 
of  his  stupendous  mind.  His  head  was  almost  as  thick 
as  his  shoulders  were  narrow.  Milton,  when  standing  be- 
side him,  looked  fully  six  inches  taller.  He  was  always 
neat  and  immaculate,  extremely  accurate;  even  his  steps 
were  timed  and  seldom  varied  in  length  by  more  than  a 
millimeter.  His  most  distinguishing  characteristics  were  his 
gray  hat,  shaped  not  unlike  a  truncated  cone,  and  his  black 
mustache,  curled  at  the  ends  Hke  a  logarithmic  spiral. 

De  Soto  was  also  active  in  the  administration  of  the 
university.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  Richelieu  to  the  president, 
who  lauded  the  former's  scientific  researches  gorgeously 
and  frequently  in  public  speeches. 

De  Soto's  talk  on  the  importance  of  research  had  not 
inspired  Paul  Milton  so  deeply  as  the  scientist  had  intended 
it  should,  although  his  mind  had  retained  several  of  the 
statements  which  the  geometer  had  uttered  with  emphasis. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  157 

It  was,  however,  the  idea  of  teaching — the  idea  of  coming 
in  contact  with  the  undergraduates — that  had  aroused  the 
boy's  enthusiasm.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  he  seemed 
so  happy  on  the  way  back  to  his  room — as  happy  as  the 
squirrels  which  frisked  along  at  his  side  as  he  fed  them 
with  the  chestnuts  which  Harold  Mollis  had  placed  in  his 
pocket.  Harold  Hollis,  as  we  have  been  told,  represented 
youth  in  general — youth  on  the  threshold  of  manhood — 
youth  on  the  threshold  of  the  great  university.  He  was  now 
going  to  meet  and  know  that  youth,  not  at  the  fireside  but 
better  still,  in  the  classroom,  where  he  felt  he  could  exert 
even  a  greater  influence  over  them.  The  opportunity  which 
he  thought  he  had  lost  forever  had  been  offered  to  him 
once  again.  This  time  he  would  not  let  it  pass.  With  each 
step  he  took,  he  felt  his  heart  leap  with  joy,  for  at  last  he 
was  going  to  talk  with  the  boys  who  were  now  passing  him 
on  the  street  at  every  minute. 

When  he  got  to  his  room,  he  took  one  of  the  thread 
models  in  his  hands — the  one  which  he  had  crushed  and 
reconstructed  again.  He  at  one  time  had  called  it  a  trap 
which  imprisoned  his  mind  and  isolated  him  from  the  men 
among  whom  he  lived.  But  now  he  caressed  and  fondled  it, 
for  he  realized  that  this  very  trap  had  helped  him  procure 
the  assistant  instructorship  which  was  going  to  bring  him 
in  contact  with  these  self-same  men.  The  yellow  silk  floss 
was  the  golden  path  which  he  was  to  follow — a  path  which 
now  went  forward,  then  backward,  piercing  and  repiercing 
the  cardboards,  zigzagging  from  right  to  left  between  them, 
passing  through  beads, — some  dull  black,  others  shiny  white, 
— intersecting  itself  at  various  points — points  over  which 
it  had  already  traveled  and  points  over  which  it  must  yet 
pass.  The  model  became  a  symbol  for  his  own  life — the 
life,  which,  ever  changing  its  course  and  altering  his  views 
as  it  seemed  to  do,  would  eventually  lead  him  to  **the  good 
and  great  purpose." 


CHAPTER  XIV 


THE    DANCE    AND    THE    DESK 


Paul  Milton  had  helped  both  Arch  Coddington  and  Har- 
old Hollis  in  their  studies.  The  reader  will  remember  how 
he  sat  at  Coddington's  desk  in  the  fraternity  house  helping 
him  make  up  his  conditions,  and  he  will  also  recall  how, 
at  Hollis'  desk  in  Miss  Jones'  dormitory,  he  told  him  he 
had  already  solved  a  problem  without  knowing  it.  He  had 
helped  Coddington  very  much — too  much;  he  had  helped 
Hollis  very  little — just  enough.  The  two  kinds  of  assist- 
ance were  radically  different. 

Coddington  knew  almost  nothing  about  his  subject. 
Milton  had  to  pump  it  into  him,  because  Coddington  had 
never  tried  to  study;  he  devoted  all  his  time  to  pleasure. 
The  process  which  Milton  used  on  Coddington  is  known  as 
tutoring.  Of  course,  Coddington  graduated,  but  it  was 
Milton's  brain  that  put  him  through.  We  know  the  char- 
acter of  the  man  who  stooped  to  such  parasitism;  we  rea- 
lize it  procured  a  diploma  for  him  unjustly;  we  saw  how 
he  had  planned  to  repay  the  tutor  that  evening  when  the 
tutor  rightly  refused  to  accept  money.  Viewed  from  all 
sides  and  angles,  in  this  case  at  least,  nothing  favorable  can 
be  said  for  tutoring. 

Now  let  us  consider  the  assistance  Milton  gave  to  Hollis : 
Hollis  had  studied  his  subject,  worked  it  out  for  himself, 
knew  it ;  only  the  final  step  puzzled  him.  It  is  in  just  these 
small  things  that  help  can  truly  be  called  help.  Milton 
explained  it  to  him  by  a  process  known  as  teaching.  Its 
superiority  over  tutoring  is  at  once  evident:  it  encourages 
study ;  it  does  not  stifle  it.  This  contact  with  Hollis  awoke 
in  Milton  a  desire  to  come  in  closer  contact  with  the  whole 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  159 

student-body;  in  the  case  of  Coddington  it  undeniably  re- 
sulted in  his  desire  to  shun  it. 

Milton  did  no  more  tutoring  after  he  had  helped  Cod- 
dington to  get  his  degree.  That  had  shown  him  how  in- 
jurious and  unjust  it  was.  He  considered  it  nothing  more 
than  a  decided  evil,  which  enabled  students  to  continue  their 
immoral  pleasures  and,  at  the  same  time,  draw  their  diplo- 
mas without  working  for  them. 

But  in  teaching,  Milton  saw  great  opportunities  for 
helping  the  students  morally  as  well  as  intellectually,  and  it 
was  toward  teaching  that  he  now  turned  his  attention.  He 
had  purchased  many  textbooks  on  the  subject  in  which  he 
was  to  give  instruction,  and  every  morning  and  afternoon 
during  vacation  he  sat  in  the  little  studio  at  Norford,  read- 
ing and  preparing  for  his  work  in  the  fall.  Indeed,  not  infre- 
quently after  his  mother  had  gone  to  bed,  he  used  to  take  the 
old-fashioned  oil-lamp  up  there  and  work  until  late  into 
the  night.  The  set  of  Emerson  from  "The  Alumni"  was 
also  on  a  shelf  in  the  studio,  but  he  never  saw  them.  Only 
textbooks  attracted  him.  He  observed  all  the  new  or  bet- 
ter ideas  which  they  introduced,  and  recorded  notes  on  the 
margins  of  the  pages.  He  solved  and  graded  all  the  prob- 
lems, checking  those  which  mig'ht  lead  to  oversights  similar 
to  the  one  Harold  HoUis  had  made.  HoUis  was  constantly 
before  his  mind,  as  a  type  of  the  class  he  was  going  to  in- 
struct. 

He  thought  out  various  schemes  to  make  the  subject 
interesting  to  his  students,  how  he  would  present  this  or 
that  theorem  before  his  class.  He  used  the  wall  of  the 
studio  for  a  blackboard,  on  which  he  practiced  the  free- 
hand drawing  of  mathematical  figures  so  as  to  become  quite 
expert  at  it,  thereby  saving  time  in  the  classroom. 

He  constructed  more  models — wooden  models  of  cones 
and  quadrics,  which  he  sawed  apart  and  then  united  again 
with  wooden  pins,  to  illustrate  the  conic  sections.  There 
was  a  planing  mill  in  the  neighborhood,  and  the  foreman 
gave  him  permission  to  use  the  various  mechanical  devices 
and  tools,  which  enabled  him  to  turn  out  more  accurate 


i6o  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

and  more  beautiful  workmanship.  He  also  constructed 
some  simpler  models  from  thread  and  celluloid,  illustrating 
the  various  loci  such  as  the  ellipse,  the  cardioid,  the  cycloid, 
the  witch  of  Agnesi,  the  four-leaf  rose,  etc. 

He  designed  more  convenient  coordinate  paper — rec- 
tanglar  and  polar — for  plotting  curves  and  evolutes.  He 
invented  hundreds  of  new  problems,  both  in  Plane  Analy- 
tics and  in  Analytics  of  Space,  to  replace  the  time-worn  ex- 
amples in  the  usual  text.  He  made  seating-plans  for  the 
distribution  of  the  students  at  examination  and  compiled 
several  examinations  and  tests  in  advance. 

In  fact  when  he  returned  to  the  university,  he  had 
mapped  out  his  work  for  the  whole  year  and  could  give  all 
his  time  to  individual  instruction  in  the  classroom.  How 
happy  he  was  to  look  forward  to  his  new  duty,  which  would 
not  only  give  him  the  opportunity  to  review,  revise,  revive 
and  apply  all  he  himself  had  learned  as  an  undergraduate, 
but  would  also  give  him  the  opportunity  which  his  strict 
application  to  that  learning  had  prevented — the  contact  with 
the  undergraduates  themselves. 

While  Paul  Milton  was  at  work  in  the  studio  that  sum- 
mer, let  us  see  what  was  taking  place  at  Willow  Lodge. 

"Well,  Allaine,"  said  Mr.  Bennett,  "another  year  has 
passed,  and  Paul  Milton  has  made  no  effort  to  better  my 
Alma  Mater.  He  is  a  good  scholar,  to  be  sure,  but  no 
reformer." 

"Don't  give  up,"  said  Allaine,  imploringly.  "Give  him 
more  time —  more  chance." 

"Time !"  repeated  Mr.  Bennett,  "he  has  been  there  now 
for  five  years;  isn't  that  time  enough?  If  he  is  to  see  the 
need  of  reform  at  all,  he  should  have  seen  it  before  this. 
And  haven't  we  tried  to  deliver  the  message  to  him  in  a 
way  that  should  have  been  most  effective?  If  Emerson 
can't  move  him,  do  you  suppose  any  one  else  could.  He  is 
a  complete  failure — that's  all  there  is  to  it.  I'm  through 
with  him." 

Allaine  wondered  what  she  could  possibly  do  or  say  to 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  i6i 

buoy  up  her  father's  depressed  hope.  She  had  noticed  that 
he  was  growing  less  and  less  sanguine  in  regard  to  Paul 
Milton's  reforming  the  university. 

Milton's  hesitancy  to  act  was,  however,  not  the  only  rea- 
son why  Wallace  Bennett  was  losing  faith  and  interest  in 
him.  The  visit  of  Richard  Hollis  and  his  son  the  preceding 
summer  had  done  far  more  to  establish  this  attitude.  In  the 
first  place,  the  senior  Hollis  had  spoken  so  lightly  and  so 
optimistically  of  college  morals  that  he  had  influenced  Mr. 
Bennett  considerably,  drawing  him,  at  least  half  way,  to 
the  same  opinions.  In  the  second  place,  the  junior  Hollis 
seemed  to  be  the  ideal  husband  for  his  daughter,  Allaine. 

Mr.  Bennett  loved  Harold  Hollis  as  he  would  his  own* 
son,  and  the  mutual  happiness  which  seemed  to  exist  be- 
tween the  son  of  his  old  chum  and  his  own  daughter  began 
to  detract  somewhat  from  his  interest  in  other  things.  He 
had  seen  Harold  steal  Allaine's  photograph,  and  was  de- 
lighted with  the  theft.  Furthermore,  he  noticed  the  girl 
was  receiving  letters  regularly  from  the  university ;  he  knew 
they  could  be  from  none  other  than  young  Hollis.  This 
correspondence  pleased  him.  Allaine,  of  course,  had  told 
her  father  it  was  "nothing  serious" — which  Mr.  Bennett 
interpreted  as  an  open  confession  of  her  deep  attachment 
to  the  boy.  In  fact  the  father  practically  saw  them  married ; 
it  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few  years. 

Naturally  enough  the  relation  between  Allaine  and  Har- 
old Hollis  seemed  to  bring  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bennett  themselves 
closer  than  they  had  been  in  recent  years.  Very  often  they 
spent  a  whole  evening  in  the  library  discussing  their  daugh- 
ter's affaire  de  coeur. 

Mrs.  Bennett  was  even  more  enthusiastic  than  her  hus- 
band, because  Harold  Hollis  had  begun  the  conquest  of 
her  daughter's  heart  and  would  gradually  lure  her  away 
from  that  "disgusting"  settlement  work.  She  planned  a 
brilliant  house  party  which  lasted  a  whole  month — a 
sequence  of  dances,  dinners,  regattas,  tennis  tournaments, 
swimming  parties,  excursions,  etc., — all  in  honor  of  Harold. 
Allaine,  whether  inclined  to  or  not,  took  part  in  all  of  them 


i62  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

to  please  her  father.  In  fact  she  was  pleasing  every  one — 
every  one  but  herself.  She  dressed  and  danced  and  seemed 
as  happy  as  the  others,  but  it  was  all  on  the  surface.  At 
heart,  it  pained  her,  for  her  thoughts  were  in  the  little  stu- 
dio among  the  rafters  with  Paul  Milton. 

Thus  while  Paul  studied,  Harold  HoUis  was  enjoying 
one  continual  whirl  of  pleasure  and  gayety. 

The  last  night  of  the  house  party  had  arrived ;  it  was 
the  chmax  of  all  the  festivity — a  promenade.  Even  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bennett  danced  together  in  the  spacious  ball  room, 
which  was  decorated  with  garlands  and  garlands  of  natural 
flowers  studded  here  and  there  with  tiny  colored  electric 
lights.  Allaine  and  Harold  had  just  finished  the  waltz  pre- 
ceding the  intermission.  The  small  balcony  gave  them  a 
magnificent  view  of  the  gardens  and  the  central  fountain, 
which  the  moonlight  was  transforming  into  a  spray  of  shim- 
mering silver.  They  remained  there  for  some  time,  inhal- 
ing the  cool  night  air  scented  with  the  perfume  of  the  flow- 
ering vine  that  twined  itself  about  the  stone  balustrade  upon 
which  Allaine  was  seated.  How  glorious  she  appeared  to 
him!  She  spoke  much,  but  he  said  little.  He  knew  not 
what  either  of  them  was  saying.  She  certainly  could  not 
understand  what  he  was  saying,  but  from  what  he  said  she 
knew  that  he  knew  not  what  she  said.  The  orchestra  at 
last  came  to  his  rescue.  During  the  intermission  there  was 
a  cornet  solo  from  Samson  and  Delilah.  The  psychological 
moment  had  arrived:  Hollis  was  on  his  knees  instantly. 
Had  any  other  girl  seen  those  large  clear  eyes  at  that 
moment,  she  would  have  jumped  from  the  balustrade  di- 
rectly into  his  arms. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Allaine.     *T'm  sorry." 

"Why  sorry?"  asked  the  youth,  his  voice  wavering  and 
his  eyes  growing  dim  with  tears. 

"Think  of  your  school — three  more  years  at  college." 

"I  will  quit  school — quit  everything  if  I  may  have  only 
you — ^you — adorable  one — Allaine  !" 

"No,  no;  I  must  wait,"  she  whispered,  calmly  stroking 
his  forehead.    "I  must  wait." 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  163 

And  she  gazed  wistfully  across  the  slumbering  gardens, 
and  far  beyond  them  she  saw  the  little  studio  window,  where 
the  soft  golden  light  from  an  old-fashioned  oil-lamp  seemed 
to  vie  with  the  moon,  which,  curiously  enough,  had  suddenly 
and  discouragingly  disappeared  behind  a  cloud  because  it 
had  failed  in  its  mission. 


CHAPTER  XV 

RESEARCH     AND     TEACHING 

The  opening  of  the  fall  term  found  Paul  Milton  back 
in  his  room  at  Miss  Jones'  house.  Harold  Hollis  had  re- 
moved to  the  chapter  house,  just  as  Arch  Coddington  had 
done  after  his  freshman  year.  But  Coddington  had  not  con- 
tinued his  calls  on  Milton  after  he  left  Mr.  Sweeny's ; 
Hollis,  however,  seemed  to  keep  up  the  acquaintance,  al- 
though Milton  knew  the  main  object  of  Harold's  visits  was 
to  call  on  his  Aunt  Clarabelle;  for  he  came  to  her  house 
regularly,  dropping  in  to  see  Milton  at  the  same  time. 
Milton  usually  found  him  in  his  room  when  returning  from 
the  meetings  of  the  Mathematical  Club. 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  the  night  which  Hollis 
had  reserved  for  visiting  his  aunt  was  also  the  night  on 
which  the  meetings  of  the  Mathematical  Club  were  held. 
Chance  also  had  it  that  Hollis  take  a  weekly  test  in  Calculus 
on  the  following  morning,  and  it  was  for  this  reason  that 
he  always  brought  a  textbook  with  him  to  Milton's  room. 
Milton  was  not  teaching  Calculus  that  year,  but  he  enjoyed 
reviewing  the  work  each  week  with  the  boy  he  loved  and 
whose  company  continued  to  give  him  so  much  pleasure. 
He  never  met  Hollis  in  the  classroom;  he  instructed  fresh- 
men only.  Milton's  relation  to  Hollis  was  not  that  of  a 
tutor — at  least  Milton  did  not  consider  it  so.  There  was 
no  financial  dealing  connected  with  the  assistance  he  gave; 
Hollis  offered  to  pay,  but  Milton  refused  to  take  it.  To 
have  the  boy  near  him  meant  far  more  to  Milton  than  a 
fee  for  his  service. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  was  that  Harold  Hollis,  how- 
ever bright,  had  begun  to  neglect  his  studies.    The  influence 


•    THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  165 

of  fraternity  life  was  gradually  becoming  apparent:  pleas- 
ure was  slowly  taking  him  away  from  his  books,  and  Mil- 
ton's help  to  Mollis  was  assuming  more  and  more  the  nature 
of  tutoring,  even  though  it  had  not  been  commercialized. 
Indeed  the  assistance  which  HoUis  received  from  Milton, 
in  preparing  for  the  weekly  test,  was  treasured  perhaps  as 
highly  as  the  pleasure  of  visiting  his  Aunt  Clarabelle  after 
leaving  Milton's  room. 

Milton  tried  hard  not  to  believe  that  Hollis  came  to  him 
for  no  reason  other  than  to  get  help  on  his  studies;  he 
wanted  to  feel  that  the  boy  would  visit  him  on  those  nights 
even  if  the  day  of  the  tests  were  changed.  Sometimes 
when  he  sat  close  beside  him  at  the  desk,  he  longed  to 
place  his  arms  about  Harold's  neck.  He  often  saw  mem- 
bers of  Hollis'  fraternity  walking  along  the  street  with  an 
arm  thrown  across  the  boy's  shoulders,  and  he  yearned  to 
do  the  same.  But  he  denied  himself  that  privilege  and  hap- 
piness, believing  that  Hollis  might  resent  it ;  friendly  as 
the  boy  seemed  toward  him,  there  was,  nevertheless  some 
secret  bond  with  others  which  held  Milton  and  Hollis  apart. 

It  was  not  only  toward  Harold  HoUis  that  Milton  felt 
this  way ;  it  was  toward  all  the  boys  he  was  instructing. 
What  Milton  wished  to  do  for  one  he  wished  to  do  for  all. 
In  the  classroom  he  was  something  more  than  a  mere  ma- 
chine which  took  the  attendance,  assigned  the  next  lesson, 
and  then  talked  like  a  graphophone.  He  was  a  teacher  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  word :  he  worked  with  his  students — 
not  apart  from  them.  He  was  more  than  interested  in  them ; 
he  loved  them. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  term  both  he  and  his  pupils 
seemed  to  be  enthusiastically  interested  in  their  work,  but, 
as  the  term  wore  on,  the  student  interest  waned,  and  they 
began  to  take  part  in  other  activities,  to  make  numerous 
friends,  and  to  shirk  their  duties  in  general.  Milton  began 
to  think  that  he  was  not  forceful  enough  as  a  teacher,  and 
he  blamed  himself  entirely  for  the  general  "slump"  which 
seemed  to  affect  the  whole  class.  He  never  once  thought 
that  it  might  be  due  to  the  fact  that  the  students  were  being 


i66  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

initiated  into  the  more  entertaining  features  of  college  life. 
He  forgot  that  there  were  two  football  games  played  each 
week,  and  that  these  furnished  a  lively  topic  of  conversation 
during  the  days  which  intervened.  He  did  not  consider 
that  the  "big  game"  was  approaching,  and  that  the  tension 
of  enthusiasm  was  increasing  hour  by  hour,  crowding  out 
books  and  learning.  Somehow  or  other  he  imagined  foot- 
ball had  passed  out  of  existence.  Neither  did  he  know  that 
the  promenade  and  a  hundred  other  events  were  looming 
into  prominence  and  gradually  usurping  the  place  which 
scholarship  should  occupy.  He  himself  had  never  taken 
part  in  these  events  when  an  undergraduate;  he  knew  little 
about  them. 

He  took  the  whole  blame  upon  his  own  shoulders  and 
worked  harder  than  ever  to  maintain  interest  in  the  class- 
room, devising  many  new  plans  and  schemes,  all  of  which 
proved  futile.  The  models  awakened  a  temporary  concern, 
but  the  novelty  of  them  soon  wore  off.  It  was  all  he  could 
do  to  prevent  himself  from  becoming  discouraged,  for  the 
application  of  his  students  was  diminishing  noticeably  week 
by  week,  day  by  day.  The  result  was  that,  at  the  end  of 
the  term,  Milton  had  a  list  of  ten  men — one  third  of  his 
class — ^to  debar  from  the  final  examination  just  before 
Christmas.    Their  grades  were  so  low  as  to  necessitate  their 

repeating  the  subject  the  following  year. 

t 

A  faculty  meeting  was  called  to  discuss  the  results  of 
the  work  for  the  first  term.  Professor  De  Soto  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  long  oak  table  in  the  departmental  room,  with 
the  members  of  the  Mathematical  faculty  on  either  side 
of  him. 

"Well,  Doctor  Leech,"  began  De  Soto,  "have  your  fresh- 
men done  well  this  term?" 

"Very  well — splendidly — ^better  than  ever,"'  answered 
the  instructor,  whose  description  we  shall  postpone  until 
later. 

"And  how  is  your  research  progressing  ?"  added  De  Soto. 

"Admirably;  I  expect  to  see  one  of  my  papers  in  the 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  167 

Journal  for  February,  one  in  the  Bulletin  the  following 
month,  one  in  the  Transactions ;  and  I  have  also  contributed 
a  short  article  which  will  appear  in  the  next  issue  of  the 
Mathematische  Annalen." 

''That's  good,"  replied  De  Soto,  grinning  like  the  Che- 
shire Cat  in  Lewis  Carroll's  famous  classic. 

De  Soto  then  glanced  at  the  instructor  sitting  next  to 
Leech. 

"And  your  work  on  Dirichlet's  Series,  Doctor  Weaver  ?" 

"I  shall  have  it  ready  for  publication  in  March," 
answered  Weaver,  as  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette  curled  from 
his  nostrils. 

"By  the  way,"  said  De  Soto,  "I  noticed  a  dissertation  in 
the  Comptes  rendus  de  V Academic  des  Sciences,  Vol.  149, 
page  909,  on  Dirichlet's  Series,  which  might  help  to  settle 
the  question  we  were  debating  last  week.  It  gives  no  details 
of  the  proof  however." 

Weaver  jotted  down  the  reference  on  the  cuff  of  his 
shirt. 

"And  what  about  your  article  on  EHiptic  Functions?" 
asked  the  professor  of  the  rather  frail  specimen  of  humanity 
which  sat  next  to  Weaver. 

"Almost  complete,"  said  a  hollow  voice,  squeaking  like 
an  E  string.    The  students  called  him  Lizzie. 

"Have  you  any  candidates  for  exclusion?"  asked  De 
Soto. 

"Two,"  said  the  E  string. 

"Let  us  hear  their  records?" 

"The  first  has  done  his  notebook  work  regularly  and 
beautifully,"  responded  the  E  string.  "He  recites  extremely 
well  in  the  classroom,  but  he  seems  to  lose  his  head  when 
it  comes  to  taking  a  test.  He  hasn't  passed  a  single  weekly 
test — his  test  average  is  only  1.2." 

"There's  no  hope  for  him,"  was  the  professor's  verdict. 
"Exclude  him.    Let  us  pass  on  to  the  second  candidate." 

"The  second  man  is  Mr.  Harold  Hollis — a  very  hand- 
some chap — who  does  nothing  at  all  in  class  and  who  has 
handed  in  his  notebook  but  twice  during  the  whole  term. 


i68  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

Nevertheless,  he  has  passed  all  of  his  weekly  tests — his  test 
average  is  34." 

"There  is  surely  no  doubt  in  his  case,"  decided  De  Soto. 

"You  mean  I  should  exclude  him?"  asked  the  E  string. 

"Exclude  him?"  exclaimed  the  professor,  at  the  top  of 
his  voice.  "How  can  we  exclude  him  when  he  seems  to 
know  more  about  the  subject  than  all  the  rest  of  us  put 
together  ?" 

"But  aside  from  his  tests,  his  grade  is  practically  zero." 

"That  makes  no  difference — the  boy  is  brilliant.  It  is 
absurd  to  debar  a  man  on  a  test  average  of  3.4,"  said 
De  Soto. 

Milton  had  listened  to  the  discussion  of  Hollis'  case  in 
silent  interest.  He  had  never  dreamed  there  would  be  any 
doubt  as  to  admitting  the  boy  to  the  final  examination,  and 
if  Hollis  would  have  been  excluded,  Milton  was  ready  to 
rise  and  defend  him.  At  the  same  time,  glad  as  it  made 
him  that  Hollis  was  to  be  given  another  chance,  he  felt  that 
a  great  injustice  had  been  committed,  and,  furthermore,  be- 
lieved that  he  himself  was  much  to  blame  for  that  injustice. 
He  realized  now,  after  hearing  this  report,  that  Hollis  had 
forsaken  his  studies  and  was  depending  entirely  on  his 
help  before  the  weekly  tests.  He  was  helping  Hollis  to  get 
a  degree  that  Hollis  did  not  deserve,  whereas  the  other 
student  was  excluded,  although  his  notebook  record  and 
his  work  in  the  classroom  showed  that  he  was  an  earnest 
and  honest  worker.  Milton  made  up  his  mind  to  urge  Hollis 
to  take  his  work  more  seriously;  he  decided  to  speak  with 
him  plainly.  There  was  only  one  thing  about  the  whole 
matter  that  consoled  Milton :  Hollis'  instructor  was  not 
a  very  inspiring  teacher. 

"How  are  your  student's  behaving  this  year?"  asked 
De  Soto. 

"Fairly  well,"  said  the  E  string.  "The  other  day  one  of 
them  threw  an  eraser  at  me,  but  I  managed  to  catch  it  before 
it  mussed  up  my  coat  with  chalk  dust." 

"Is  that  all.  Doctor  Oswald?" 

"That's  all,  thank  you,"  said  the  E  string. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  169 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Doctor  Weaver,  I  forgot  to  ask  if  you 
had  any  men  to  debar  from  the  examination,"  said  the  pro- 
fessor. 

"None,"  said  Weaver,  lighting  another  cigarette. 

"What  excellent  work  we  are  accomplishing  this  year!" 
remarked  De  Soto,  elated.  "I  suppose  you  are  not  going 
to  spoil  this  record  by  adding  more  to  the  number  of  ex- 
clusions. Doctor  King." 

"I  have  only  one  to  add,"  mumbled  King,  without  lift- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  newspaper  he  was  reading.  "At  the 
last  class  faculty  meeting  I  give  him  a  warning  at  1.3,  and 
since  that  it  has  fell  to  0.9,  which  ain't  half  low  enough  be- 
cause he  don't  know  nothing." 

"A  very  clear  case  very  clearly  stated,"  said  De  Soto. 
"And  as  to  your  article  on  Partial  Differential  Equations — 
that  is  coming  along  nicely  I  suppose." 

"Oh  yes,  oh  yes,"  mumbled  King,  bored  to  distraction. 

"The  university  will  be  very  well  represented  in  the 
scientific  periodicals  this  year,"  remarked  De  Soto.  "And 
now,  Doctor  Wellworth,  of  course  you  have  no  students  to 
exclude  and  no  research  to  report  on.  It  is  well  to  keep 
one  good  teacher  in  the  department,  and  we  are  willing  to 
accept  his  excellent  suggestions  on  classroom  work  in  lieu 
of  original  investigation  and  contributions  to  the  journals. 
By  the  way.  Doctor  Wellworth,  will  you  see  to  the  mak- 
ing out  of  a  seating-plan  for  the  final  examination  for  all 
divisions,  to  posting  it  up,  to  distributing  the  examination 
papers  and  the  log'  tables,  to  collecting  the  books  at  the 
end  of  the  hour,  to  assorting  them  and  distributing  them  to 
the  various  instructors  who  will  need  all  their  time  to  com- 
plete their  researches  before  vacation  comes.  I  should  also 
like  to  call  the  attention  of  the  faculty  to  the  meeting  of  The 
American  Mathematical  Society  which  will  be  held  in  New 
York  City  shortly  after  New  Years.  I  shall  present  a  very 
important  paper  at  that  meeting,  and  I  should  like  to  see 
all  of  you  there  to  represent  the  university — would  you 
mind  taking  my  graduate  class  that  day,  Doctor  Well- 
worth?" 


170  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

Wellworth  was  silent.  He  merely  nodded  his  head  as 
he  sat  in  a  chair  tilted  on  two  legs  and  rested  against  the 
window  sill. 

"I  shall  also  present  that  paper  at  our  own  Mathe- 
matical Club  tonight,"  added  De  Soto,  "and  I  shall  be 
glad  to  have  you  all  come  there  also.  Should  any  of  you 
notice  a  defect,  I  shall  correct  it  before  presenting  it  in 
New  York." 

Milton  was  sitting  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  table 
directly  opposite  the  head  of  the  department,  who  now 
turned  his  small  sharp  eyes  in  that  direction. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Milton,"  said  De  Soto,  straightening  up 
in  his  chair,  " — our  promising  young  investigator  of  the 
future, — how  many  students  have  you  to  exclude?" 

"Ten,"  answered  Milton  firmly. 

De  Soto  shrank  back  to  his  usual  dimensions ;  his  spec- 
tacles dropped  off  his  nose  and  fell  to  the  floor,  one  of  the 
glasses  breaking  into  slivers. 

Wellworth  almost  fell  out  of  the  window. 

King  continued  to  read  his  newspaper. 

"Gracious,  gracious,"  said  the  E  string. 

Weaver  swallowed  his  cigarette. 

Leech  was  thinking  about  his  octic  curve  with  seven 
cusps ;  he  couldn't  have  swallowed  that  had  he  wanted  to. 

"I  should  like  to  see  you  in  my  office  directly  after  the 
meeting  to  talk  about  your  thesis,"  said  De  Soto,  after  his 
recovery. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Milton. 

"The  meeting  is  adjourned,"  said  De  Soto  quickly;  and 
he  balanced  the  broken  spectacles  on  the  end  of  his  nose 
and  limped  out  of  the  room. 

De  Soto  had  already  reached  his  private  office  and  closed 
the  door  with  a  bang ;  Milton  rapped. 
"Come  in,"  shouted  De  Soto. 
Milton  entered. 

"Close  the  door,"  snapped  the  geometer. 
Milton  obeyed. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  171 

"Well!  Well!  Well!"  shouted  the  professor.  "That 
was  a  blow." 

"What  was?"  asked  Milton  nervously. 

"Ten  men  to  exclude — one  third  of  your  class !  What's 
the  trouble?" 

"They  don't  know  anything." 

"Perhaps  you  didn't  teach  them  anything,"  suggested 
De  Soto  sarcastically. 

"On  the  contrary,  sir,  I  worked  very  hard  with  them. 
I  spent  the  whole  summer  inventing  problems,  constructing 
models  and  preparing  test  papers." 

"Have  you  a  copy  of  the  last  test  you  gave  them  ?"  asked 
the  professor  authoritatively. 

"I  can  get  it  from  my  desk  downstairs." 

"Do  so,"  commanded  De  Soto. 

Milton  started  out. 

"By  the  way,  have  you  returned  the  papers  from  that 
test  to  your  students  ?" 

"Not  yet,  sir." 

"Bring  the  papers  with  you  also." 

"Yes,  sir." 

De  Soto  paced  up  and  down  the  floor  until  Milton  re- 
turned ;  his  steps  were  a  few  millimeters  longer  than  usual. 

"Here  they  are,"  said  Milton. 

"Sit  down,"  said  De  Soto  gruffly.  "Let  me  see  the  test 
paper  first." 

Milton  passed  it  to  him,  and  he  examined  it  through  the 
one  eyeglass  of  his  broken  spectacles. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  first  problem?  It  is  too  dif- 
ficult." 

"I  took  it  from  a  test  which  you  gave  us  at  this  time 
of  the  year  when  I  myself  was  in  your  freshman  class,"  said 
Milton. 

De  Soto  rubbed  his  chin. 

"It's  a  good  problem,"  he  added,  "but  we  don't  work 
that  kind  any  more.    That  was  four  years  ago." 

"Has  the  course  been  simplified  since  then  ?" 

"Certainly,  certainly ;  the  University  is  growing." 


172  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

De  Soto  took  a  second  glance  at  the  paper. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  second  problem?" 

"It  is  worked  out  in  the  textbook,  but  I  made  it  slightly 
different  by  interchanging  the  a  and  the  &." 

"You  should  have  kept  it  as  it  was.  What  is  the  nature 
of  the  third  question?" 

"The  definition  of  the  locus  of  an  equation." 

"That's  good ;  it  is  always  well  to  ask  for  several  defini- 
tions.   The  students  can  commit  them  by  heart." 

"Not  all  students." 

"No,  of  course  not;  but  they  usually  write  down  some- 
thing or  other." 

"The  fourth  problem  is  an  original,"  explained  Milton. 

"How  do  you  work  it?"  asked  De  Soto. 

"By  first  applying  one  theorem  and  then  the  other." 

"We  don't  give  originals  nowadays ;  we  don't  expect  all 
our  students  to  take  up  research.  Now  suppose  you  select 
what  you  consider  the  best  paper  handed  in  by  your 
students." 

Milton  handed  De  Soto  the  paper  on  the  top  of  the 
pile. 

"I  considered  that  perfect,  and  I  gave  the  boy  a  4,"  said 
Milton. 

"Never  give  a  student  a  mark  of  4;  he  will  not  do  any 
more  work  for  a  month  after  he  receives  it.  Now  let  me 
see  a  paper  that  is  not  quite  perfect." 

"Here  is  one  I  graded  at  3.9." 

''What  was  the  error  ?" 

"He  mistook  a  2  for  a  Z." 

"Heaven !"  shouted  De  Soto,  throwing  up  his.  hands. 
"You  have  graded  him  far  too  high." 

"What  would  you  have  given  him  ?"  asked  Milton. 

"3.8." 

Milton  changed  the  mark  accordingly. 

"Now  show  me  the  paper  of  a  man  who  has  all  but 
passed." 

"Here  is  one  graded  at  1.9;  he  mistook  a  Z  for  a  2 — 
just  the  reverse  of  the  other  man's  mistake." 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  173 

*'Just  the  reverse  ?  then  add  a  point  and  pass  him." 

Milton  raised  the  mark  to  2. 

"Now  let  me  see  a  very  poor  paper,"  said  De  Soto. 

"Here  is  one  graded  at  zero." 

"How  much  has  he  right  ?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  Milton. 

"He  has  drawn  the  circle  for  the  first  problem." 

"But  he  hasn't  worked  it." 

"Nevertheless  it  is  a  very  nice-looking  circle — a  very 
round  one." 

"Yes ;  it  was  drawn  with  a  compass,"  explained  Milton. 

"Isn't  it  worth  something?" 

"How  much?"  asked  Milton. 

"Give  him  five  points ;  I  always  allow  something  for  a 
good  figure." 

"He  didn't  even  try  the  second  problem,"  said  Milton  in 
advance. 

"He  could  have  worked  it  if  you  hadn't  interchanged  the 
a  and  the  h.  Give  him  half  credit.  Now  what  about  his 
definition  of  a  locus?" 

"He  has  written  something  which  doesn't  mean  any- 
thing to  me,"  said  Milton. 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference  as  long  as  he  under- 
stands it  himself.    Give  him  full  credit." 

"That  gives  him  a  passing  grade,"  said  Milton. 

"That's  good;  we  won't  have  to  consider  the  original." 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  more  of  the  papers,  sir  ?" 

"No ;  I  shall  ask  you  to  reread  them  all  yourself  after 
the  fashion  I  have  just  shown  you.  Don't  mark  so  strictly, 
and  remember  that  not  all  students  have  brains  like  you  and 
I.  Be  a  little  more  lenient,  young  man.  Never  exclude 
more  than  three  men  in  one  division.  It  gives  the  depart- 
ment a  bad  reputation." 

"I  believe  you  wanted  to  speak  with  me  about  my 
thesis,"  said  Milton. 

"I  thought  I  told  you  once  that  you  wouldn't  be  ready 
to  think  of  that  until  the  end  of  the  year,"  remarked 
De  Soto. 


174  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

De  Soto,  in  his  excitement,  had  forgotten  the  excuse 
which  he  had  offered  before  his  department  to  call  Milton 
in  for  an  interview.  The  boy's  remark,  however,  served  as 
a  valuable  suggestion. 

"However,  I  think  I  shall  set  you  to  work  on  it,"  added 
De  Soto,  "because  you  are  giving  entirely  too  much  atten- 
tion to  your  teaching.  Be  sure  to  come  to  the  Mathematical 
Club  tonight.  What  I  shall  have  to  say  will  be  of  help 
to  you.  And,  by  the  way,  suppose  you  call  on  Doctor  Leech 
this  afternoon,  and  let  him  explain  to  you  the  kind  of 
tests  we  are  accustomed  to  giving  our  students.  His  ad- 
dress is  53  Mellon  Street." 

Milton  took  his  test  papers  and  left  the  office.  He  rea- 
lized that  the  old  geometer  had  been  excited,  and  did  not 
know  what  ridiculous  remarks  he  had  made. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  all  due  to  excitement.  When 
great  scientists  are  called  down  to  earth  to  consider  such 
a  trivial  thing  as  the  grading  of  a  freshman  test  paper, 
we  soon  discover  how  useless,  bored,  absurd  and  inapt  they 
are  in  undergraduate  instruction.  It  is  far  better  that  they 
keep  their  heads  among  the  clouds,  their  feet  dangling  in 
the  air,  and  their  hands  off  those  things  with  which  they 
are  no  longer  fit  to  deal. 

That  afternoon  Milton  plodded  through  a  driving  snow, 
searching  for  the  house  on  Mellon  Street.  He  finally  dis- 
covered the  number,  very  dimly  visible,  over  a  doorway, 
so  low  that  even  Professor  De  Soto  could  not  have  entered 
without  denting  his  conical  gray  hat.  As  he  stood  waiting 
on  the  rickety  veranda  only  a  yard  wide,  he  could  not  fail 
to  observe  how  much  the  building  seemed  like  a  paper  shell ; 
in  case  of  a  severe  gale,  the  number  would  probably  have  to' 
be  changed  to  either  51  or  55,  depending  on  which  way 
the  wind  blew. 

A  little  old  man,  with  a  long  beard  as  white  as  the 
snow  and  with  eyes  Hke  a  pair  of  shoe  buttons,  answered 
Milton's  knock  on  the  door. 

"Is  Doctor  Leech  in  ?" 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  175 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man.  "Just  walk  up  stairs  and  ham- 
mer on  the  first  door  you  come  to.  Don't  rap;  hammer," 
repeated  the  old  man  emphatically. 

Milton  carried  out  the  landlord's  direction  so  faithfully 
that  the  old  man  stood  gasping  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  lest 
the  pounding  prove  disastrous  to  his  property.  And  still 
no  response  came  from  Doctor  Leech's  room.  Finally  Mil- 
ton opened  the  door  and  entered,  unannounced,  an  atmos- 
phere in  which  the  fumes  of  gas,  tobacco  and  alcohol  each 
tried  to  gain  predominance. 

It  was  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor.  The  only 
thing  on  the  wall  was  a  calendar.  An  antiquated  bookcase 
occupied  one  corner,  the  upper  part  consisting  of  shelves, 
which  sagged  under  the  weight  of  many  thick  volumes,  the 
lower  part  consisting  of  drawers,  which  were  open  and  filled 
with  reprints  and  apple  cores;  a  pseudosphere,  black  with 
dust,  stood  on  the  top,  puncturing  the  ceiling.  A  thread- 
bare couch,  ruptured  in  many  places  and  littered  with  re- 
search journals,  was  pushed  up  quite  close  to  a  table,  which 
was  strewn  with  stimulants  and  several  sheets  of  paper. 
On  one  side  of  this  table, — almost  under  it  in  fact, — stood 
a  rusty  roaring  stove ;  on  the  other  side,  a  revolving  chair 
and  an  immense  cuspidor.  Leech  had  told  the  landlord  to 
furnish  him  with  "a  spittoon  that  he  couldn't  possibly  miss." 

Leech  was  sitting  at  the  table  in  his  bare  feet,  which  were 
almost  inside  of  the  stove.  His  hair,  brick-red  in  color,  was 
badly  in  need  of  trimming.  There  was  a  circular  hole  in 
one  of  his  front  teeth ;  he  had  lost  the  filling.  He  was  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  and  scratching  with  a  fountain  pen. 

"Professor  De  Soto  sent  me  over  to  see  you,"  yelled 
Milton  in  Leech's  ear. 

Leech  looked  up  with  a  start. 

"What's  your  name  ?" 

"Milton." 

"Oh,  yes ;  yes,"  said  Leech.  "Have  a  seat  here  on  the  bed." 

Milton  sat  upon  the  research  journals. 

"Do  you  smoke?"  asked  Leech,  as  he  held  out  a  box 
of  cigarettes. 


176  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

"No,  thank  you." 

**But  you'll  have  a  little  nip,  I  guess." 

"I  don't  drink  either,"  admitted  Milton,  boyishly. 

"And  a  mathematician !  How  in  the  devil  do  you  man- 
age to  think?  I  couldn't  do  a  stroke  without  my  Deities 
and  my  rye." 

He  took  hold  of  the  bottle,  poured  some  whiskey,  and 
lifted  the  glass  nervously  to  his  thick  lips;  then  wiped  his 
mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Well,  what  does  Professor  desire?"  asked  Leech,  after 
he  had  resumed  puffing  at  the  butt  of  his  cigarette. 

"He  wants  you  to  show  me  how  to  make  out  a  test 
paper.    Were  you  at  the  faculty  meeting  this  morning  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Leech. 

"I  saw  you." 

"Then  I  guess  I  was  there.  These  meetings  are  such  a 
bore.  I  never  hear  anything  that's  said  at  them.  I  am 
usually  thinking  about  my  research — my  octic  curves.  It's 
the  same  way  in  the  classroom.  I  never  know  whether  I 
am  there  or  not,  and  I  never  know  whether  my  students 
are  there  or  not  either." 

"Don't  you  take  the  attendance  to  find  out?"  asked 
Milton. 

"Once  a  year — the  morning  of  the  big  football  game. 
Then  I  write  across  the  card:  entire  class  absent.  It  saves 
time  and  work." 

"I  noticed  Professor  De  Soto  did  not  ask  you  if  there 
were  any  students  to  be  excluded  in  your  division." 

"I  never  exclude  students  from  the  exam ;  I  always  pass 
them,"  said  Leech,  as  he  threw  the  butt  of  his  cigarette  into 
the  cuspidor  and  lighted  another  one. 

"They  must  be  very  brilliant,"  suggested  Milton. 

"They  are  hopelessly  stupid,"  replied  Leech. 

"And  you  pass  them  nevertheless?"  inquired  Milton. 

"Yes — unless  they  come  around  here  and  ask  me  how 
much  they  have  to  make  to  get  through." 

"Then  what  do  you  do  ?" 

"I  flunk  them." 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  ij? 

"Do  any  of  them  ever  ask  you  how  much  they  have  to 
make?" 

"They  never  come  within  a  radius  of  six  feet  of  my 
desk  in  the  classroom,"  replied  Leech,  placing  his  half- 
smoked  cigarette  aside  and  cutting  off  a  large  chunk  of 
tobacco.  "They're  a  damn  nuisance — a  pest,"  added  the 
"dope"  fiend,  as  he  crushed  the  wad  mercilessly  between 
his  bony  jaws.  "My  idea  of  heaven  is  a  place  where  no 
student  asks  you  his  stand;"  and  he  squirted  the  juice 
through  the  hole  in  his  tooth  over  his  left  shoulder  into  the 
cuspidor. 

"Is  your  class  very  large  ?"  asked  Milton. 

"I'm  the  most  popular  instructor  in  the  school,"  was  the 
reply. 

"I  suppose  most  boys  hate  the  instructor  who  excludes 
them." 

"They'd  murder  him  if  they  had  brains  enough  to 
do  it." 

"I  wanted  to  exclude  ten  this  morning,"  said  Milton. 

"Ten!"  shouted  Leech,  with  a  jump  that  upset  the 
whiskey  bottle. 

"Yes ;  is  that  an  unusual  number  ?" 

"It  should  be  the  regular  number,"  said  Leech.  "I  guess 
if  you  were  doing  the  right  thing,  you'd  exclude  them  all — 
but  right  is  not  always  policy.  After  you  have  been  here 
a  year  or  so,  you'll  get  next  to  a  thing  or  two ;"  and  he 
slid  his  hand  along  the  table  to  collect  the  spilt  liquor. 

"What  is  policy  ?"  asked  Milton. 

"Pass  your  students  and  say  nothing,"  answered  Leech. 
He  swallowed  what  little  whiskey  he  had  saved,  and  then 
mopped  up  the  rest  with  a  blotter.  "You  haven't  been  hired 
to  teach,  unless  you  want  to  make  a  slave  of  yourself.  Just 
take  notice  sometime  to  the  way  De  Soto  treats  Wellworth — 
our  crack  teacher;  it's  a  wonder  he  doesn't  ask  Welly  to 
mow  his  lawn  for  him  after  recitations.  Teaching  around 
here  doesn't  amount  to  that."  He  snapped  his  wet  fingers 
in  Milton's  face,  and  a  drop  of  the  liquor  flew  into  the  boy's 
eye.    "You're  blind — ^you  are." 


178  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

And  Milton  rubbed  his  eye  to  relieve  the  smart. 

"Research  is  the  one  and  only  thing  that  counts,"  con- 
tinued Leech.  "You  notice  we  have  no  assistant  professor 
in  our  department,  and  we  all  stand  a  show  for  it — all  but 
Wellworth.  Of  course  I'm  not  considering  you,  because 
you  haven't  taken  your  doctorate  yet.  But  we  are  all  work- 
ing our  heads  off  to  get  that  assistant  professorship.  I  am 
far  ahead  of  the  others  now.  I've  had  a  paper  in  each  of 
the  journals  this  year,  two  in  some  of  them,  three  in  one. 
I'm  a  wonder  as  far  as  quantity  goes,  and  it's  quantity  that 
the  university  wants.  It  doesn't  matter  much  what  kind 
of  dope  you  cook  up  for  publication.  Nobody  reads  it — 
nobody  but  the  editors ;  poor  devils !  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
such  old  boys  as  Euclid,  Newton,  Descartes  and  Leibnitz 
contributed  the  only  things  worth  while  in  mathematics. 
They  built  the  foundation;  a  few  other  great  men  put  up 
the  walls  and  the  roof,  and  all  of  us  modern  would-be  math- 
ematicians are  putting  on  the  decorations,  which  go  out  of 
style  almost  as  soon  as  they  come  in.  That's  all  modern 
research  is — style — fad.  But  we've  got  to  be  up  to  date 
if  we  expect  to  be  promoted." 

He  made  another  contribution  to  the  cuspidor,  and  then 
continued : 

"Some  of  the  faculty  think  it  helps  along  their  promo- 
tion if  they  get  married.  Fools !  Doctor  Oswald  tried 
that — he's  the  fellow  with  a  voice  like  a  string.  He  dropped 
in  here  the  other  night  to  tell  me  his  troubles — ^twins  and  a 
mother-in-law.  The  kids  have  the  measles,  and  the  old 
woman's  laid  up  with  lumbago.  Holy  Jerusalem !  I'm  glad 
I'm  single.  After  Oswald  left,  I  got  down  on  the  floor  and 
rolled  over  and  over  again ;  I  was  so  happy.  His  house 
is  quarantined ;  he's  not  allowed  to  go  home — how  glad 
he  must  be!  He  has  written  up  a  paper  during  his  fur- 
lough, in  hopes  of  getting  the  assistant  professorship.  He 
needs  the  money  more  than  I  do,  but  I'm  going  to  come  out 
on  top  all  the  same." 

Leech  grinned  maliciously,  showing  the  hole  in  his  yellow 
tooth. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  179 

"Here's  my  family,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  whiskey 
and  the  tobacco.  "They  do  my  research  for  me ;  they  don't 
keep  me  away  from  it." 

By  this  time  Milton  was  almost  suffocated,  not  only  by 
the  heat,  the  smoke,  the  fumes  of  gas,  and  the  liquor  on 
Leech's  breath,  but  also  by  the  trend  of  the  man's  thought 
and  conversation.  He  felt  that  if  he  were  to  remain  with 
him  five  minutes  longer,  he  would  faint ;  so  he  took  his  hat 
and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"What's  your  hurry  ?" 

"I  have  to  reread  some  test  papers,"  said  Milton. 

Leech  arose,  and  accidently  stepped  into  the  cuspidor. 

"Damn  it,"  he  cried,  "that's  what  I  get  for  not  wearing 
my  slippers.  However,  I  hope  I've  given  you  some  point- 
ers on  making  out  your  next  test.  Good  night;"  and  he 
held  out  his  long,  trembling,  white  hand  with  its  dirty  nails. 
"Come  again." 

A  few  minutes  later  Leech  had  reloaded  himself  with 
more  ammunition  and  sat  down  to  transform  it  into  curves 
of  the  eight  order,  while  Paul  Milton  was  walking  briskly 
through  the  fresh  white  snow,  trying  to  purge  his  lungs 
and  his  brain  by  taking  long  deep  breaths  of  the  clear 
cold  air. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE     THIRST     FOR     BROTHERHOOD 

The  fresh  air  had  thoroughly  purged  Milton's  lungs  of 
the  fumes  from  Leech's  sordid  nest,  but  it  failed  to  disperse 
those  ideas  which  had  nettled  the  boy's  mind.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  inform  the  reader  that  although  Milton  at- 
tended the  Mathematical  Club  that  night  and  although  De 
Soto  looked  directly  at  his  star  graduate  student  while  em- 
phasizing certain  parts  of  his  paper,  nevertheless  the  boy 
retained  nothing  which  the  great  geometer  had  said.  Not 
only  Leech's  idea  but  Leech  himself  sat  at  his  side  through- 
out the  entire  lecture,  and  when  De  Soto  brought  his  paper 
to  a  close,  Milton  fairly  ran  from  the  hall  to  the  solitude  of 
his  own  room,  where  he  sank  down  upon  his  bed,  reviewing 
his  experiences  of  that  day  and  trying  to  interpret  them  in 
a  sane  and  satisfactory  manner. 

Thus  we  begin  a  new  chapter  of  misery  in  the  book 
of  Paul  Milton's  life — the  golden  floss  of  the  thread  model, 
symbolizing  the  path  along  which  he  must  travel,  is  about 
to  pass  through  another  black  bead. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  he  was  radiant — radiant 
because  he  had  been  appointed  assistant  instructor — radiant 
because  he  had  been  given  the  opportunity  to  mingle  with 
the  undergraduates,  to  know  them,  to  love  them.  How  he 
had  labored  the  preceding  summer,  preparing  his  subject 
and  trying  to  make  it  interesting !  What  had  it  all  amounted 
to?  Who  knows  but  that  the  students  themselves  were 
ridiculing  his  efforts!  Who  knows  but  that  they  were 
laughing  at  him  when  his  back  was  turned!  Was  not  his 
record  a  sufficient  proof  of  the  fact  that  neither  he  nor  they 
had   accomplished   anything?     Ten   exclusions — one   third 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  i8i 

of  his  class !  The  boys  for  whom  he  had  worked  so  hard, 
the  boys  whom  he  loved  so  dearly!  This  was  the  recom- 
pense they  gave  him. 

It  was  the  fact  that  he  had  excluded  ten  while  the  other 
instructors  had  excluded  practically  none  or  one  at  most — 
it  was  this  that  made  his  case  appear  so  dark;  it  was  this 
which  brought  the  wrath  of  De  Soto  upon  him.  But  after 
all,  had  not  the  other  instructors  played  falsely — at  least 
the  majority  of  them?  Leech,  for  one,  had  certainly  done 
so.  De  Soto  had  said  never  to  exclude  more  than  three  men 
from  any  one  division ;  otherwise,  it  gave  the  department  a 
bad  reputation.  Leech  and  the  others  therefore  were  not 
acting  justly ;  they  were  simply  keeping  up  the  reputation — 
the  false  reputation.  Of  course  Milton  reread  his  test 
papers,  and,  by  changing  the  grades  by  the  method  a  la  De 
Soto,  he  had  managed  to  reduce  his  list  of  ten  exclu- 
sions to  three.  This,  however,  did  not  reduce  the  number 
in  Milton's  mind,  but  it  at  least  brought  considerable  re- 
lief to  the  professor;  for  the  Hst  had  not  yet  been  publicly 
posted. 

To  give  the  men  a  chance  to  take  an  examination  when 
they  did  not  deserve  that  chance,  when  their  disinterest  in 
and  their  disrespect  for  their  studies  showed  clearly  that 
they  were  unworthy  of  it;  to  allow  them  to  hire  a  tutor  to 
put  them  through,  to  literally  permit  them  to  buy  a  diploma 
without  even  paying  the  university  for  it — this,  to  Milton, 
was  disgracefully  lowering  the  standard  of  scholarship,  al- 
though it  gave  the  public  the  impression  that  the  students 
loved  their  books  and  that  the  faculty  were  by  no  means 
neglecting  their  interest  in  teaching.  It  was,  in  fact,  cor- 
roborating the  secret  views  of  the  students  and  the  faculty 
themselves — the  view  that  a  boy  could  get  a  degree  without 
opening  a  book. 

That  was  just  what  Coddington  had  done;  that  was 
just  what  Mollis  was  doing.  It  was  now  clear  that  Hollis 
never  opened  his  book  except  when  he  brought  it  to 
Milton's  room.  The  report  on  Hollis'  scholarship,  which 
Milton  had  heard  that  morning,  still  annoyed  him ;  although 


i82  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

he  did  not  forget  the  fact  that  Doctor  Oswald — Hollis' 
instructor — was  not  the  type  of  man  to  inspire  HolHs  to 
study. 

But  was  Oswald  entirely  to  blame  for  the  fact  that  he 
was  not  an  inspiring  instructor?  Perhaps  Oswald  had  also 
discovered  that  instruction  would  never  lead  to  advance- 
ment. Could  one,  after  all,  reproach  Oswald  for  turning 
his  entire  attention  from  teaching  to  research?  He  had 
even  better  reason  for  doing  so  than  Leech  had.  Leech 
was  a  single  man  and  from  all  appearances  he  was  willing 
to  remain  so.  His  present  salary  was  enough  to  enable 
him  to  live  comfortably — certainly  more  than  enough  for  his 
present  state  of  existence.  But  here  was  Oswald,  a  temper- 
ate man,  who,  with  a  family  to  support,  had  to  neglect  his 
teaching  because  the  university  would  not  pay  him  enough 
for  that  alone.  Milton  began  to  pity  poor  Oswald,  comical 
and  effeminate  as  he  appeared.  It  seemed  that  everything 
was  against  this  unfortunate  instructor :  His  looks,  his 
voice,  his  actions  all  seemed  to  retard  his  progress;  his 
students  laughed  at  him  and  threw  erasers  at  his  carefully 
brushed  clothes  (Leech's  clothes  had  never  felt  a  brush)  ; 
his  children  had  measles ;  his  mother-in-law,  lumbago ;  he 
had  no  money  to  pay  the  doctor  bills;  and  here  was  this 
fiend.  Leech,  who  with  money  enough  and  to  spare,  was 
not  only  trying  to  keep  it  out  of  reach  of  the  almost  im- 
poverished man,  but  also  took  a  malicious  delight  in  doing 
so.  Was  it  any  wonder  Oswald  seemed  irate  and  uninspir- 
ing to  his  students?  Was  it  any  wonder  his  voice  was 
under  strain?  Milton  would  not  beHeve  Oswald  had  mar- 
ried simply  to  gain  the  sympathy  and  attention  of  those  who 
controlled  his  advancement.  Oswald  had  another  reason : 
Not  all  men  are  contented  with  selfish  isolation,  a  whiskey 
bottle  and  a  box  of  tobacco ;  some  are  more  human  and  long 
for  the  companionship  of  a  loving  wife  and  children.  A 
loving  father  always  makes  an  inspiring  teacher.  Is  it  not 
possible  that  Oswald's  failure  to  inspire  resulted,  in  great 
part,  from  the  resistance  which  came  from  all  directions 
against  his  efforts? 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  183 

Milton  decided  that  Oswald  had  really  shown  himself 
superior  to  De  Soto  in  wishing  to  exclude  Harold  HoUis ; 
for  by  doing  so,  he  would  have  brought  Hollis  around  to 
his  senses — the  ability  to  do  which  is  the  real  test  of  the 
truly  inspiring  teacher.  Nevertheless,  he  hoped  there  might 
be  a  change  in  schedule  for  the  following  term,  because  he 
believed  Hollis  would  brace  up  under  a  new  instructor  who 
devoted  his  entire  attention  to  his  teaching  and  his  students 
— an  instructor  who  had  no  researches  to  lessen  that  inter- 
est. Milton  himself  was  such  an  instructor ;  and  yet,  had  not 
Milton  excluded  ten? 

Then  what  was  at  the  bottom  of  it?  What  was  the 
cause  of  so  much  poor  scholarship?  Ah!  it  was  neither 
Hollis  nor  Oswald  nor  Milton  who  were  at  fault ;  it  was  the 
general  idea  in  vogue  at  the  university — ^the  universal  idea 
that  neither  teaching  nor  learning  amounted  to  a  row  of 
pins.  De  Soto  had  expressed  the  unimportance  of  teaching ; 
Coddington  had  expressed  the  folly  of  learning.  But  Mil- 
ton had  defied  both;  he  bravely  undertook  to  learn  and  to 
teach.  He  was  successful  in  learning,  but  he  had  failed 
miserably  in  his  first  attempt  at  teaching.  However,  he  was 
not  discouraged.  His  failure  only  served  to  open  his  eyes  to 
De  Soto's  method  of  grading  test  papers  and  to  Leech's 
views  of  the  university. 

After  all,  De  Soto  himself  had  lacked  the  moral  courage 
to  state  the  naked  truth;  he  had  left  that  coward-like  to 
his  understudy.  There  was  indeed  nothing  radically  differ- 
ent in  the  opinions  expressed  by  the  two  men:  Leech's 
were  crude;  De  Soto's  were  varnished.  If  De  Soto  had 
had  a  deeper  insight  into  the  mind  of  his  so-called  prodigy, 
he  would  never  have  sent  him  to  the  hole  of  this  toad, 
whose  confession  that  his  students  never  came  within  a 
radius  of  six  feet  of  his  desk  only  served  the  more  to  in- 
flame the  mind  of  Paul  Milton  with  a  desire  for  closer  con- 
tact between  the  teacher  and  the  taught.  But  it  was  not 
De  Soto,  after  all,  who  sent  the  boy  on  his  mission.  De  Soto 
was  merely  an  avenue  through  which  the  power  was  con- 
ducted— that  same  power  which  had  pushed  Paul  Milton 


i84  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

up  the  stairs  to  follow  May  Stanley  and  open  his  eyes  to 
the  conditions  amidst  which  he  was  living.  It  would  have 
been  far  more  pleasant  to  have  called  on  Doctor  Wellworth. 
Wellworth  was  a  human  looking  man  with  humane  interests. 
He  was  a  teacher — a  man  deeply  interested  in  his  students. 
All  this  mental  turmoil  would  have  been  avoided  had  Well- 
worth's  ideas  been  the  first  to  reach  Milton's  ears  before 
they  were  poisoned.  But  now  the  poor  boy's  mind  was  set 
at  variance  against  the  ideals  of  his  beloved  university ; 
for  he  soon  began  to  think  that  all  instructors  in  all  depart- 
ments entertained  the  same  views  on  teaching  as  Leech 
himself.  He  believed  Leech's  policy  was  the  general  policy : 
Pass  your  men  and  say  nothing — research  is  the  only  thing 
that  counts — it  is  downright  nonsense  to  take  an  interest  in 
one's  students — research  itself  is  just  as  nonsensical — a 
mere  fad.  What  a  shallow  thing  the  university  was  be- 
coming! How  it  began  to  sink  before  the  eyes  of  Paul 
Milton !  How  he  longed  to  save  it  and  restore  it  to  what 
a  university  should  be!  The  "good  and  great  purpose!" 
At  last  it  was  unfolding  to  him.  Providence  was  surely 
leading  him  by  the  hand. 

Yes,  it  was  Providence  which  had  lead  him  into  the 
watchdog's  kennel  and  into  the  toad's  hole.  These  two 
men — Sweeny  and  Leech — were  now  vivid  in  his  mind. 
Horrible  and  inhuman  as  they  seemed,  they  had  a  mission. 
One  had  pointed  out  to  him  the  defects  of  the  undergrad- 
uates ;  the  other,  the  defects  of  the  faculty.  Here  were 
the  two  distinct  parts  of  the  university — the  student  and 
the  teacher,  or,  more  true,  the  so-called  student  and  the  so- 
called  teacher.  Each  was  at  fault — each  a  separate  unit 
in  no  way  related  or  connected  to  the  other  by  friendship 
or  fraternal  bonds.  His  hatred  for  Sweeny  and  Leech  was 
growing  less  and  less ;  they  were  the  microscopes  through 
which  he  had  been  able  to  see  more  plainly  the  evils  of  the 
two  departments,  exaggerated,  magnified  perhaps,  just  as 
the  germs,  which  undermine  the  health  and  welfare  of  the 
human  constitution,  must  first  be  viewed  and  studied 
through  a  very  powerful  lens  before  we  are  convinced  that 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  185 

they  exist  and  before  we  can  take  action  upon  their  ex- 
termination. 

Milton  recalled  once  having  seen  a  case  of  buzzards  and 
vultures  at  a  museum.  Tliey  were  ugly  horrible-looking 
birds  of  prey,  hovering  over  the  dead  body  of  a  deer,  which 
had  been  wounded  by  a  hunter's  arrow.  The  deer  had 
sought  a  secluded  spot  among  the  bushes,  where  it  might 
die  in  peace.  The  carcass  had  been  there  for  sometime; 
otherwise  the  buzzards  and  the  vultures  could  not  have 
found  it,  for  they  scent,  not  the  pure  and  the  clean,  but 
only  that  which  is  putrid  and  decadent.  Time  had  ripened 
the  flesh  and  prepared  it  for  their  gruesome  feast,  and  there 
they  were,  shrieking  and  gorging,  their  beaks  and  claws 
besmeared  with  blood.  The  scene  was  revolting.  And  yet 
the  card  which  described  the  exhibit  stated  that  these  birds 
had  their  place  and  use  in  Nature;  they  were  scavengers 
who  soon  detected  the  presence  of  decay  and  rottenness, 
upon  which  they  fed,  and,  by  so  doing,  kept  the  atmosphere 
sweet  and  pure. 

Thus  Sweeny  and  Leech  also  had  their  places  and  uses 
in  the  university  world.  What  God  cannot  accomplish 
through  Nature,  He  accomplishes  through  man.  These 
men  were  the  human  vultures  which  God  had  sent  to  detect 
injustice  and  corruption,  to  gloat  over  it,  and  to  point  it 
out  to  others  who  wished  to  make  the  university  a  cleaner 
and  more  honorable  community. 

Yes !  Milton  had  been  dreaming.  Sweeny  was  right. 
The  violin  had  closed  his  eyes  and  ears  to  the  corruption 
which  was  thriving  about  him,  and  he  decided  not  to 
touch  it  again  until  he  had  done  his  part  in  clearing  away 
the  evil  which  was  undermining  the  health  of  the  Alma 
Mater.  Yes ;  music  is  very  beautiful.  It  had  kept  him  clean 
and  upright,  as  it  had  kept  his  own  father.  But  it  is  not 
enough  that  we  see  only  to  our  own  cleanliness  and  moral- 
ity. Of  what  good  is  our  goodness  if  we  do  not  use  it  as 
a  shield  in  fighting  the  evil  which  is  degrading  others  ? 

True  enough  his  mother  had  once  called  his  attention 
to  the  birds,  who  sang  so  beautifully  in  the  tree  tops  because 


i86  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

they  were  near  God;  but  God  has  created  other  birds  as 
well.  He  has  created  some  that  cannot  sing  so  beautifully, 
some  which  only  shriek  and  scream — the  buzzards  and  the 
vultures.  We  must  listen  to  them  also,  for  they  are  attract- 
ing our  attention  to  the  corruption  which  is  endangering 
the  lives  of  those  of  our  fellow-men  who  are  so  unfortu- 
nate as  not  to  be  able  to  appreciate  the  songs  of  the  whip- 
poor-will  and  the  nightingale.  It  is  not  sufficient  that  those 
of  us  who  love  only  beauty  and  purity  should  sit  by  our- 
selves listening  to  the  music  which  elevates  only  our  own 
souls;  it  is  also  necessary  that  we  hear  occasionally  the 
shrill,  coarse  cry  of  the  vulture  to  arouse  us  from  our  peace- 
ful dream  and  enlist  us  in  the  army  which  is  fighting  for 
the  salvation  of  the  souls  of  our  brothers.  The  vulture ! — 
he  too  is  one  of  God's  birds,  terrible  though  his  song  may 
seem. 

Milton  wanted  to  rush  forward  to  battle,  and  yet  he 
felt  that  he  should  not  go  alone.  There  came  to  him  sud- 
denly the  thought  of  Harold  Hollis.  He  recalled  the  even- 
ing he  had  spent  in  Hollis'  room  before  the  bright  warm 
fire  and  the  picture  which  Hollis  had  shown  him — the  pic- 
ture of  a  girl — a  girl  who  had  already  enlisted  in  the  army 
which  was  fighting  for  morality.  Curiously  enough,  this 
girl  had  continued  to  remain  in  Paul  Milton's  mind.  He  did 
not  know  her,  but  she  seemed  to  beckon  him  onward.  It 
was  the  girl  whom  Hollis  would  some  day  marry  and  for 
whom  Hollis  wanted  to  do  something  big  to  feel  that  he 
deserved  her.  Here  was  a  great  cause  for  which  he  and 
HolHs  could  work  side  by  side.  How  he  rejoiced  over  the 
thought  of  helping  to  join  the  boy  he  loved  with  the  girl 
whom  that  boy  loved ! 

It  was  the  night  before  the  last  weekly  test  in  Calculus. 
Milton  could  scarcely  wait  until  he  heard  the  rap  on  his 
door,  which  would  announce  the  arrival  of  his  pupil.  He 
would  tell  Hollis  to  again  take  interest  in  the  studies  he  hafl 
neglected,  and  he  would  explain  his  plan  for  their  working 
together  like  two  brothers  to  ameliorate  the  university.  He 
lay  there  on  his  bed  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  Hollis' 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  187 

footsteps  on  the  stairs — Hollis!  who  would  bring  so  much 
happiness  and  love,  and  who  would  now  help  him  solve  a 
problem — the  great  problem  which  had  set  fire  to  his  mind 
and  filled  it  with  burning  enthusiasm.  How  he  longed, 
yearned,  craved  for  the  boy ! 

Some  one  knocked.  Milton  jumped  up  quickly  and 
opened  the  door.  He  was  standing  face  to  face  with  Miss 
Jones. 

"Here  is  a  letter  for  you,"  she  said  sweetly. 

"Do  come  in,"  said  Milton  urgently.  "I  wish  to  speak 
with  you.     I  am  going  to  ask  something  of  you." 

He  had  decided  to  lay  his  plans  before  Hollis'  aunt 
that  she  too  might  use  her  influence  to  bring  them  together. 
He  knew  she  was  optimistic,  but  he  would  try  to  convince 
her  of  the  need  of  reform  as  he  saw  it. 

"Gladly,"  said  Miss  Jones,  taking  the  rocking  chair  be- 
fore the  fire  and  still  holding  in  her  lap  the  letter  which 
Milton,  in  his  enthusiasm,  had  forgotten. 

"I  am  miserable,"  he  began. 

"Oh,"  said  Miss  Jones,  with  compassion. 

"You  have  always  seemed  so  happy  to  me,"  he  continued. 
"I  used  to  watch  you  from  my  window  when  I  roomed 
across  the  street.  I  used  to  wish  I  lived  in  your  house 
That  is  why  I  moved  over  here.  I  thought  I  would  be  hap- 
pier.   That  is  why  I  came  here." 

"Are  you  not  happier?"  she  asked. 

"No;"  he  answered,  "I  believe  there  are  times  when  I 
am  far  more  miserable." 

"You  are  too  much  alone,"  she  suggested. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  realize  that;  but  the  nearer  I  try  to 
get  to  those  whose  presence  I  yearn  for,  the  farther  away 
they  seem  from  me,  and  the  more  unhappy  I  become." 

"Are  you  unhappy  even  now?"  asked  Miss  Jones,  with 
hesitancy. 

"I  have  never  been  more  so,"  he  answered. 

"I  do  not  understand  you;  you  must  make  yourself 
clearer." 


i88  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

"You  will  understand  me  when  I  tell  you  what  I  wish 
to  ask  of  you,"  he  explained. 

"I  am  waiting  to  hear  it,"  she  responded. 

Milton  sat  down  on  the  floor  between  Miss  Jones  and 
the  little  gas-stove.  The  mellow  light  illuminated  his  face, 
and  she  saw  that  he  was  suffering  and  sad,  that  something 
was  weighing  heavily  upon  his  mind,  that  he  was  yearning 
for  something  which  seemed  to  be  denied  him. 

"I  crave ;  I  hunger ;  I  thirst,"  he  said. 

"For  what?"  she  asked. 

"For  love,"  he  answered. 

She  said  nothing,  only  reached  out  and  stroked  his  head 
tenderly.  The  door  to  Milton's  room  had  been  left  partly 
open.  Harold  Hollis  had  noiselessly  ascended  the  stairs, 
and  was  standing  unobserved  in  the  hall.  Milton  sighed 
with  joy  when  he  felt  the  touch  of  Miss  Jones'  hand. 

"Just  that;  just  that,"  he  murmured.  "If  I  could  do 
but  that.  If  only  I  could  allow  myself  to  do  but  that — 
just  that." 

"Just  what  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  touch — the  contact — the  union,"  he  said. 

"The  union  of  man  and  woman,"  she  added,  continuing 
to  smooth  his  hair.  "Ah,  you  should  have  a  companion — 
a  wife." 

"But  I  must  first  earn  one;  I  must  first  accomplish  a 
broader  union,"  said  Paul. 

"Not  the  union  by  marriage?" 

"No ;  the  union  of  man  and  man — brotherhood." 

Miss  Jones  withdrew  her  hand  abruptly. 

"We  live  here  in  a  university,"  began  Milton.  "There 
are  two  distinct  parts  to  the  community — ^the  faculty  and 
the  students.  What  common  relation  exists  between  them? 
None.  How  can  they  therefore  better  each  other?  They 
can't. 

"Here  are  the  faculty  and  the  students,  each  with  widely 
divergent  pursuits.  The  faculty  symbolize  mind  and  work ; 
the  students  symbolize  body  and  pleasure.  The  faculty  are 
satisfied  to  let  the  students  continue  their  pleasure;  for  by 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  189 

making  physical  pleasure  foremost  in  student  interests,  the 
work  of  the  faculty  meets  with  no  interference  or  interrup- 
tion. The  students  are  satisfied  to  let  the  faculty  continue 
their  work ;  for  by  making  mental  work  foremost  in  faculty 
interests,  the  pleasure  of  the  students  meets  with  no  ob- 
jection or  prevention.  Each  destroy  their  own  end  by  over- 
developing it  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  other.  The  farther  the 
interests  of  the  two  groups  are  separated,  the  happier  they 
seem  to  be.  And  what  is  accomplished?  Nothing.  What 
is  the  meaning  of  education  under  such  conditions?  Alas, 
there  can  be  no  education — the  word  is  meaningless. 

"Select  the  man  on  our  faculty  who  is  most  applauded 
for  his  achievements — a  great  scientist.  Mentally  he  is 
brilliant,  but  bodily  he  is  stunted — devoid  of  physique. 
Furthermore,  his  extraordinary  mental  development  has  car- 
ried his  thoughts  so  far  in  advance  of  the  average  man  that 
his  works  are  likely  to  be  useless  to  mankind  in  general. 

"Select  the  man  among  our  students  who  is  most  ap- 
plauded for  his  achievements — a  great  athlete.  Physically 
he  is  perfect,  but  mentally  he  is  dull — devoid  of  intellect. 
Likewise,  his  extraordinary  physical  development  has  car- 
ried his  appetites  so  far  in  advance  of  the  average  man  that 
his  pleasures  are  likely  to  be  ruinous  to  mankind  in  general. 

"Neither  the  scientist  nor  the  athlete  is  human.  One  is, 
in  a  sense,  superhuman ;  the  other,  animal.  They  are  ex- 
tremes, antagonists.  Their  interests  are  exact  opposites. 
In  neither  is  there  a  proper  coordination  of  mind  and  body. 
One  shuns  physical  effort;  the  other,  mental  effort.  There 
is  no  friendly  relation  between  them  and  their  interests, 
and  no  effort  is  made  to  bring  them  together  into  a  com- 
mon brotherhood.  The  gulf  between  them  widens  and  deep- 
ens from  year  to  year.  Here  we  erect  a  costly  stadium 
for  athletics ;  there  we  erect  a  costly  laboratory  for  research. 
But  what  do  we  erect  for  scholarship  ?  Those  who  are  sup- 
posed to  teach  have  no  interest  in  the  subject  they  teach  or 
in  the  students  to  whom  they  teach  it ;  those  who  are  sup- 
posed to  learn  have  no  interest  in  the  books  where  learning 
is  written  or  in  the  teachers  who  are  to  impart  it.     What 


190  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

chance  has  scholarship  under  such  conditions?  What  is  a 
university  without  scholarship?  without  this  contact — this 
brotherhood  between  the  teacher  and  the  taught? 

"There  must  be  a  reform.  How  will  it  come  about? 
Two  centers  or  nuclei  must  appear  :  one,  among  the  faculty ; 
the  other,  among  the  students.  There  must  be  a  union  be- 
tween these  two  centers ;  they  must  come  together  as  broth- 
ers. The  union  of  these  two  centers  will  eventually  lead  to 
the  union  of  the  two  forces, — the  mental  and  the  physical, — 
which  they  represent.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  will  edu- 
cation have  its  true  meaning  and  a  significance. 

*T  have  volunteered  to  be  the  center  on  the  faculty.  As 
to  the  center  among  the  students — I  see  him  also.  /  have 
already  united  myself  with  him,  but  he  has  not  as  yet  come 
in  close  enough  contact  to  enable  me  to  explain  freely  what 
we  could  accomplish  in  working  side  by  side  for  our  com- 
mon cause.  The  students  could  have  no  better  representa- 
tive than  he.  He  is  a  youth,  honorable,  bright,  clean,  whole- 
some, manly.  He  has  not  yet  been  ensnared  by  the  tempta- 
tions which  surround  him.  There  is  one  whose  influence 
keeps  him  upright.  He  is  noble,  grand,  great;  and  you 
have  done  much  to  keep  him  so.  You  have  guarded  him, 
watched  him,  and  protected  him  in  the  absence  of  his 
mother  as  though  he  were  your  own  child.  You  are  a 
mother  to  all  your  students,  but  you  have  been  closer  to 
him  than  to  all  the  others.  You  are  his  blood  relation. 
He  has  felt  the  great  power  of  good  in  you — the  great 
power  which  resists  evil.  He  has  felt  it  in  the  kiss  and 
caress  the  mother  gives  her  boy  when  she  places  him  in  his 
cradle ;  he  has  felt  it  in  the  kiss  and  caress  which  she  gives 
as  she  sends  him  off  to  school;  he  has  felt  it  in  the  kiss 
which  she  continues  to  give  him  when  she  goes  to  rest  at 
the  end  of  her  happy  day  and  he  steals  to  her  chamber  to 
clasp  her  lovingly  to  his  manly  bosom.  You  know  that 
boy.  Bring  him  to  me;  he  does  not  seem  to  care  to  come. 
You  love  him,  but  your  love  for  him  is  no  greater  than 
mine.  Now  you  understand  why  I  am  lonely,  why  I  am 
miserable,  why  I  crave  for  the  fraternity  of  the  brother 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  191 

who  is  going  to  help  me  reform  our  Alma  Mater — your 
nephew — Harold  HoUis." 

Hollis  had  intended  leaving  when  he  discovered  Miss 
Jones  stroking  Milton's  head  as  the  instructor  revealed  his 
craving  for  love — and  yet  something,  perhaps  that  same 
Providence,  held  him  there.  But  when  his  own  name  came 
at  the  very  end  of  the  soliloquy,  it  seemed  he  could  not 
get  air  enough  to  enable  him  to  breathe ;  he  crept  down  the 
stairs  and  then  ran  down  the  street  in  search  of  his  friends, 
whose  company,  he  hoped,  would  help  him  forget  all  he 
had  seen  and  heard. 

Miss  Jones  was  silent  during  the  soliloquy.  She  had  lis- 
tened with  interest  to  all  Milton  had  said,  although  he 
seemed  wholly  unaware  of  her  presence.  She  believed  he 
was  talking  to  some  one  other  than  her — to  some  invisible 
companion.  His  eyes  had  been  fixed  in  the  direction  of  the 
little  stove  before  him.  Its  door  was  made  up  of  several 
thin  bars  of  iron,  radiating  from  an  open  semi-circle.  The 
golden  light,  reflected  from  the  copper  lining  through  this 
grating,  gave  the  effect  of  a  sunrise.  No  doubt  the  reader 
has  seen  just  such  a  stove.  Milton  was  speaking  as  one  in 
a  dream.  He  imagined  his  sun  was  gradually  rising  higher 
and  higher  while  the  light,  which  it  diffused,  was  becoming 
brighter  and  brighter,  illuminating  his  little  world  among 
the  stars  with  hope  and  faith  and  love.  After  he  men- 
tioned the  name  of  Hollis,  he  turned  his  head  and  saw  large 
tears  streaming  from  Miss  Jones'  eyes. 

"Why  do  you  weep  ?"  he  asked  softly. 

"It  is  all  so  wonderful,"  she  sobbed.  "Your  idea  of 
what  a  university  should  be  compared  with  what  it  is.  Your 
wish,  your  thirst,  your  hunger,  your  desire  to  make  the 
students  better,  more  upright,  more  studious,  more  clean.  I 
am  going  to  help  you  do  it.  You  must  not  know  just  yet — 
in  fact  you  may  never  learn  in  what  way  I  have  assisted 
you;  it  is  best  for  both  of  us  that  I  do  not  mention  it. 
But  you  have  shown  me  the  proper  path.  Know  that  I  shall 
always  be  thinking  of  you  and  your  noble  work,  and  help- 
ing you  to  succeed  with  your  undertaking.    I  can  do  some- 


192  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

thing  to  prevent,  in  a  small  degree,  the  conditions  you  have 
observed  in  your  surroundings,  and  which  have  incited  in 
you  the  spirit  of  reform.  I  shall  be  glad  to  play  my  part 
in  your  work  of  reconstruction.  It  shall  be  but  a  small 
fraction  and  therefore  I  shall  expect  no  credit  at  all.  Let 
us  not  speak  of  it  further.    Good  night." 

Milton  offered  her  his  hand,  and  she  held  it  firmly  in 
her  grasp  for  an  instant,  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 
Then  the  door  closed  softly ;  she  was  gone.  The  light  from 
Sunrise  fell  full  upon  the  letter  which  had  slipped  unob- 
served from  Miss  Jones'  lap  to  the  floor.  Milton  opened 
it  and  read : 

Dear  Mr.  Milton: — 

I  am  sorry  indeed  if  it  has  appeared  to  you  that  I  have 
insinuated  that  your  work  in  the  classroom  was  unsatis- 
factory. I  want  you  to  feel  that  we  have  in  no  way  lost 
interest  in  you.  A  new  assistant  always  has  more  or  less 
difficulty  getting  his  class  in  running  order.  We  shall  hope 
for  better  results  next  term.  Do  not  allow  any  matter  con- 
cerning your  students  to  discourage  your  interest  in  the 
greater  task  for  which  you  are  destined,  and  for  which 
the  university  has  now  installed  you  on  its  faculty :  I  shall 
speak  with  you  later  in  regard  to  your  thesis. 

Another  matter :  One  of  our  undergraduate  fraternities 
has  decided  to  erect  a  beautiful  new  building  on  the  same 
site  where  their  present  domicile  stands.  The  wrecking 
of  the  old  structure  will  begin  at  the  end  of  the  present 
college  year,  and  the  new  one  will  not  be  ready  for  occu- 
pancy until  year  after  next.  The  members  of  that  fraternity 
have  obtained  permission  from  the  faculty  to  use,  as  tem- 
porary quarters  for  a  part  of  their  brotherhood,  a  private 
residence  recently  willed  to  the  university.  We  must,  ac- 
cording to  our  rules,  place  a  member  of  the  faculty  in  this 
building  to  act  as  proctor.  I  thought  you  might  like  to 
consider  the  position.  The  free  room  will  save  you  the 
expense  of  rent,  which,  in  a  way,  might  be  considered  as 
an  addition  to  your  salary  aside   from  the  contemplated 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  193 

increase  which  your  excellent  teaching  during  this   term 
seems  to  justify. 

We  will  talk  these  matters  over  in  greater  detail  when 
it  is  convenient  for  us  to  do  so. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Ambroise  De  Soto. 

Milton  folded  the  note  and  pressed  it  against  his  heart, 
which  was  beating  madly  with  ecstasy;  the  fraternity  re- 
ferred to  was  that  of  which  Harold  Hollis  was  a  member. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

WHAT    HAPPENED    TO    JONES? 

The  next  morning  Milton  read  the  note  again.  This  time 
he  studied  it  more  deeply  than  he  had  the  night  before, 
and  realized  that  De  Soto's  wrath  over  the  "ten  exclusions" 
was  mostly  excitement;  he  expected  the  old  professor  to 
take  the  matter  differently  as  soon  as  he  had  regained  his 
self-composure.  This  part  of  the  note  seemed  only  natural, 
but  the  thing  that  puzzled  Milton  was  De  Soto's  attitude 
in  regard  to  his  moving  into  a  fraternity  house.  The  head 
of  the  department  had  plainly  told  Milton  that  he  was  giv- 
ing too  much  attention  to  his  students  in  the  classroom, 
and  yet  here  he  was  trying  to  bring  about  closer  contact  by 
appointing  him  as  proctor  over  their  dormitory. 

Milton  conducted  his  usual  morning  recitation  directly 
after  breakfasting,  and  then  called  at  De  Soto's  private 
office. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  geometer,  smiling.  "I  take  it 
you  have  received  my  note." 

"Yes,"  said  Milton. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  would  mention  it  at  the  close  of 
the  meeting  of  the  Mathematical  Club.  You  hurried  off 
so  last  night." 

"I  only  found  the  note  after  I  returned  to  my  room 
from  the  meeting,"  explained  Milton. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  geometer.  "Sit  down,  and  let  us 
talk  it  over."  De  Soto  cleared  his  throat.  "I  feel  that  I 
owe  you  an  apology  for  the  attitude  I  took  toward  the  result 
of  your  teaching  yesterday.  I  lose  my  self-control  so  easily. 
However,  let  us  forget  that.  By  the  way,  did  you  call  on 
Doctor  Leech  ?" 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  195 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  he  informed  you  as  to  the  nature  of  the  tests  we 
give  to  our  students?" 

Milton  nodded. 

"Leech  is  a  genius — a  great  mathematician,"  added  De 
Soto.  "I  hope  you  will  some  day  be  his  equal  if  not  his 
superior." 

De  Soto  expected  a  remark  from  the  boy,  but  the  latter 
decided  to  let  the  professor  do  the  talking;  he  learned 
more  by  it. 

"Of  course  his  appearance  is  very  much  against  him, 
but  then  we  can't  all  be  handsome;  some  of  us  must  have 
brains.  A  few  of  us  are  fortunate  enough  to  have  both — a 
very  few,"  he  added,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  twisting 
his  mustache  on  the  end  of  his  finger.  "Leech  has  certain 
mannerisms  which  annoy  all  of  us  at  first,  but  his  remark- 
able mentality  soon  causes  us  to  forget  them.  He  is  un- 
married, which  is  very  much  in  his  favor.  A  man  who  is 
fashioned  by  nature  *to  strike  new  springs  of  thought' — 
as  Huxley  puts  it — can't  very  well  be  bothered  with  a  wife 
and  children.  It  was  Lord  Bacon,  I  believe,  who  said  that 
memory,  merit  and  noble  works  are  proper  to  men  while 
the  perpetuity  by  generation  is  common  to  beasts." 

And  Milton  wondered  under  which  category  Leech  be- 
longed. 

"After  all,"  continued  the  professor,  "the  money  of  a 
university  should  be  used  for  the  advancement  of  science 
and  not  for  feeding  the  mouths  of  the  children  of  its 
faculty.  Babies  are  all  right  in  their  place,  but  we  should 
not  be  so  tender-hearted  as  to  pity  the  instructor  who  holds 
them  before  us  on  his  pleading  arms  to  ask  for  an  increase 
in  the  father's  salary,  or  who  offers  them  as  an  excuse  for 
the  absence  of  his  contributions  to  science.  It  is  mental 
and  not  material  production  that  should  serve  as  a  basis  for 
professional  remuneration  and  promotion.  Human  love 
is  an  element  which  makes  the  home,  but  it  defeats  the  real 
purpose  of  a  university.  When  a  man  becomes  interested 
in  science,  he  sees  how  far  superior  it  is  to  marriage,  and 


196  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

he  realizes  that  human  love,  and  even  Christianity,  to  a 
certain  extent,  are  farcical  and  illusory." 

To  Milton,  that  moment,  the  thin  transparent  body  of 
the  great  geometer  looked  exactly  like  an  icicle  which  he 
had  seen  hanging  from  the  roof  that  morning  just  outside 
his  window.  The  geometer's  statement  that  human  love 
defeated  the  real  purpose  of  a  university  was  one  which 
Milton  could  not  easily  forget. 

"And  now  in  regard  to  your  thesis,"  began  De  Soto, 
emphasizing  the  pronoun  as  though  his  former  discourse 
had  been  intended  as  a  piece  of  advice  for  Milton's  future, 
"of  course  you  understood  some  of  the  things  I  explained 
to  you  at  the  Club  last  night.    Were  you  able  to  follow  me  ?" 

"Not  very  well,"  said  Milton. 

"I  tried  to  make  it  very  plain  for  your  special  benefit,'* 
remarked  the  geometer,  "but  I  realize  it  is  very  advanced 
in  its  nature.  I  did  not  expect  you  to  understand  it  imme- 
diately. Later  on,  you  will  run  across  certain  topics  in 
your  graduate  courses  which  will  make  things  clearer,  but 
even  so,  you  will  have  to  give  a  great  deal  of  time  to  special 
study  before  you  can  master  it.  I  am  going  to  give  you  all 
— one  hundred  and  thirty-two  pages;  and  I  shall  ask  you 
to  look  them  over  just  as  soon  as  you  find  it  convenient 
to  do  so." 

The  geomter  unlocked  a  drawer  of  his  desk  and  took  out 
a  stack  of  papers. 

"You  understand,"  added  De  Soto,  "that  I  am  always 
ready  to  help  you  in  case  you  run  across  anything  which  is 
obscure;  and  there  will  be  much  of  that.  If  you  need  more 
time,  I  shall  gladly  read  your  test  papers  for  you.  Through- 
out the  work  there  are  numerous  problems  suggested.  The 
solution  of  these  will  constitute  your  thesis.  I  myself  have 
labored  on  the  more  important  and  more  difficult  part — the 
theory.  The  thesis  submitted  for  the  Degree  of  Doctor  of 
Philosophy  must  be  deposited  at  the  university  library  on  the 
first  day  of  May  of  the  same  year  in  which  the  degree  is 
conferred.  It  is  now  close  to  the  first  of  January.  You 
will  get  your  degree  one  year  from  the  coming  June.    There 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  197 

is  no  need  for  hurry.  You  have  sixteen  months,  including 
the  summer  vacation.  It  is  expected  of  course  that  you 
will  devote  the  coming  summer  to  the  preparation  of  your 
dissertation — just  a  few  hours  each  morning.  You  will 
enjoy  that,  I  know.  Most  members  of  our  faculty  do  the 
greater  part  of  their  researching  during  vacation,  when  they 
are  not  tied  down  by  their  teaching." 

And  Milton  thought  how  Leech  was  tied  down  by  his 
teaching. 

"The  final  work  will  be  published  under  my  name,  and 
I  shall  make  especial  mention,  in  the  preface,  of  all  your 
problems  and  valuable  suggestions.  The  complete  work — 
including  the  preface — will  later  be  translated  into  many 
foreign  languages,  and,  while  serving  to  advance  the  stand- 
ing of  this  great  university,  it  will,  at  the  same  time,  intro- 
duce you  to  the  ever-growing  world  of  mathematical  re- 
search.   Now  in  regard  to  the  proctorship — " 

Milton  was  glad  to  hear  this  abrupt  change  in  the  topic 
of  conversation.  He  was  well  nigh  weary  of  the  professor's 
babble  on  research. 

**Have  you  considered  that  ?" 

Milton  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"And  at  present  you  are  rooming  at — " 

"At  97  Walnut  Street." 

"Oh,  yes;  that  is  the  house  run  by  Miss  Jones,"  said 
De  Soto. 

Milton  thought  it  extraordinary  that  the  professor  should 
be  so  well  posted ;  but  Milton  did  not  know  that  some  one,  a 
few  years  before,  had  reported  to  the  faculty  how  the  stu- 
dents of  that  house  had  taken  a  girl  in  through  the  window. 

"How  long  have  you  been  there?"  asked  De  Soto. 

"This  is  my  second  year." 

De  Soto  reflected  a  moment ;  the  event  had  occurred  be- 
fore Milton  roomed  at  that  house. 

"During  your  stay  there,  have  the  students  seemed  well- 
behaved  ?" 

"Yes;"  answered  Milton,  "quite  well  behaved — the  in- 
fluence of  Miss  Jones  keeps  them  so." 


198  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

"Miss  Jones  makes  a  good  landlady;  does  she?"  asked 
the  professor,  as  he  absent-mindedly  turned  over  some  of 
the  papers  on  his  desk. 

"An  ideal  landlady,"  answered  Milton.  "She  runs  her 
house  more  like  a  home  than  a  dormitory." 

"She  speaks  very  highly  of  the  morals  of  the  students, 
and  opinions  of  that  nature  are  very  helpful  to  the  uni- 
versity. Aliss  Jones  is  well  thought  of  by  the  university 
officials." 

"She  is  a  good  woman,"  said  Milton. 

"Yes,"  said  De  Soto,  scratching  his  chin. 

"There  are  enough  indecent  ones  in  the  community," 
added  Milton. 

"No  more  than  there  are  in  any  other  community,"  said 
the  professor.  "Have  you  decided  to  accept  the  proctor- 
ship?" asked  De  Soto,  anxious  to  change  the  subject. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Aside  from  the  money,  which  a  free  room  will  save 
for  you,  is  there  any  other  reason  which  leads  you  to  make 
the  change?" 

Miss  Jones  had  refused  to  accept  rent  of  Milton,  al- 
though he  had  offered  it  several  times. 

"It  is  not  the  idea  of  a  free  room  that  leads  me  to  make 
the  change ;  it  is  the  idea  of  living  among  the  students  and 
influencing  them  as  well  as  I  can  in  matters  of  conduct." 

"You  help  Miss  Jones  in  that  too;  do  you?" 

"No;  but  when  I  become  a  proctor,  I  shall  feel  it  my 
duty  to  do  so." 

"Oh,"  replied  De  Soto,  "your  responsibilities  will  be 
very  light  indeed.  We  are  not  placing  you  in  the  building 
as  a  watchdog." 

The  name  watchdog,  coming  from  this  man,  had  a 
peculiar  effect  on  Milton;  he  wondered  if  De  Soto  knew 
Sweeny. 

"We  must  not  forget  that  boys  will  be  boys,"  continued 
the  geometer.  "You  will  find  them  hilarious  now  and  then 
when  they  drink  a  little  more  than  they  should — almost 
everybody  likes  beer." 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  199 

"What  will  my  duties  be  ?"  asked  Milton. 

"Simply  to  be  there— that's  all.  It  is  a  rule,  you  know, 
that  there  shall  be  a  member  of  the  faculty  in  every  dormi- 
tory connected  with  the  university.  It  makes  the  parents  feel 
easier  about  their  boys.  Some  mammas  are  so  afraid  their 
sons  will  learn  a  thing  or  two  by  experience  that  we  have 
adopted  this  means  of  soothing  their  nerves.  It's  mere 
formality,  you  understand — mere  formality." 

"Am  I  expected  to  report  ill-behavior?" 

"Not  unless  it  is  something  serious,"  said  De  Soto  non- 
chalantly. 

"For  example?" 

"Well,  now  in  case  they  attempted  to  burn  down  the 
house,  it  would  be  well  to  send  in  an  alarm  to  the  fire  de- 
partment." 

De  Soto  grinned. 

"But  the  less  you  interfere  with  them  the  better,"  he  con- 
tinued. "The  men  in  these  fraternities  belong  to  a  rather 
exclusive  set;  most  of  them  are  wealthy.  They  are  not 
here  primarily  for  the  purpose  of  study;  they  have  other 
interests — fellowship,  football,  promenades,  etc.  If  I  were 
you,  I  should  not  mingle  with  them — not  too  much.  You 
of  course  will  have  your  work  to  do ;  you  will  be  kept  busy 
solving  the  problems  for  my  new  book.-'* 

De  Soto  handed  Milton  the  stack  of  papers. 

"The  room,  by  the  way,  is  the  small  chamber  on  the 
third  floor,"  said  the  professor. 

"Is  that  the  top  floor?"  asked  Milton. 

"No;  there  is  one  other  above  it,  but  the  rooms  on  the 
fourth  floor  are  unfinished  and  unfit  for  occupancy.  Why 
do  you  ask  ?" 

"I  am  accustomed  to  living  in  a  garret." 

De  Soto  smiled. 

"It  is  the  only  place  for  a  mathematical  genius  like  you," 
he  said,  "but  as  it  is,  there  will  be  no  students  living  over 
you;  nothing  will  be  done  overhead  to  disturb  or  hinder 
your  progress  in  the  work  on  my  book  in  any  way.'* 

"Is  the  room  furnished  ?"  asked  Milton. 


200  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

"No;  but  there  isn't  space  for  much  more  than  a  bed 
and  a  desk.     You  can  furnish  it  easily  and  inexpensively." 

"I  wish  to  thank  you  for  doing  all  this  for  me." 

"Don't  mention  it;  and,  by  the  way,  take  very  good 
care  of  my  precious  manuscript." 

Milton,  as  usual,  had  said  little  but  had  heard  much. 
De  Soto's  ideas  and  opinions  were  all  recorded  in  his  mind 
along  with  those  of  Doctor  Leech,  Mr.  Sweeny  and  May 
Stanley. 

When  he  returned  to  Miss  Jones'  house,  he  found  the 
front  door  locked.  He  had  never  found  it  so  before,  and 
for  that  reason  had  never  carried  a  latch  key.  He  rang  the 
bell.  There  was  a  heavy  step  in  the  hall ;  the  door  opened, 
and  something  like  a  woman  confronted  him.  She  was 
more  like  a  man;  there  were  a  few  long  hairs  on  her  bony 
chin,  and  two  huge  warts  on  her  long  pointed  nose;  she 
had  lost  several  of  her  teeth." 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  she  grumbled. 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  my  room;  I  am  sorry  to  trouble 
you,  but  I  have  forgotten  my  key." 

"Well,  you'll  need  it  all  the  time  from  now  on,"  she  said 
imperatively,  "/'w  going  to  run  this  house  hereafter,  and 
the  front  door's  going  to  be  kept  bolted.  Miss  Jones  has 
been  called  out  of  town  very  suddenly,  and  she's  not  coming 
back  again." 

Milton  was  stunned. 

"What's  your  name  ?"  she  shouted. 

"Milton." 

"Oh,  you're  Mr.  Milton,  are  you?"  she  said  with  a 
smile,  her  voice  becoming  more  civil.  "Pardon  me  for 
speaking  so  impolitely.  I  thought  you  were  one  of  the 
students." 

Then  the  giantess  disappeared  so  suddenly  that  Milton 
believed  she  had  dropped  through  the  floor.  When  he 
reached  his  room,  he  found  a  note  on  his  desk,  stating  that, 
although  there  had  been  a  change  in  landladies,  the  room 
was  still  to  be  his ;  that  neither  the  rent  for  the  past  nor  the 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  201 

rent  for  the  future  would  be  collected ;  that  the  new  landlady 
would  be  sure  to  keep  the  room  clean  and  in  order.  It  also 
stated,  that  if  he  cared  to  move  out  of  the  house  at  any  time, 
he  was  entitled  to  take  the  furniture  with  him  wherever  he 
might  go.    Miss  Jones  herself  had  signed  the  note. 

She  had  told  Milton,  only  the  night  before,  that  she  was 
going  to  help  him,  and  that  she  was  going  to  prevent  at 
least  partially  the  conditions  he  had  observed.  She  had 
also  said  that  she  would  not  speak  of  it  again.  It  was  all 
so  strange,  so  mysterious  that  she,  who  had  treated  him  so 
kindly,  should  leave  so  suddenly  without  a  word  of  expla- 
nation.   He  could  not  fathom  it. 

On  his  way  out  to  lunch,  he  noticed  that  Miss  Jones* 
students  were,  from  all  appearances,  changing  their  quar- 
ters. Evidently  they  took  a  strong  dislike  to  their  new  land- 
lady. She  was  certainly  less  attractive  than  Miss  Jones. 
One  of  them  was  carrying  a  drop-light  under  his  arm;  a 
second  had  several  pillows  and  books ;  a  third,  framed  pic- 
tures; a  fourth,  a  Morris  chair  balanced  on  his  head. 
Milton  recalled  that  Miss  Jones  had  told  him  how  the  stu- 
dents left  all  their  furniture  with  her.  It  was  evident  that 
the  giantess  had  manifested  little  or  no  kindness  during  her 
short  regime,  for  the  students  would  surely  have  repaid 
her  for  it  just  as  they  had  Miss  Jones. 

When  Milton  returned  after  the  Christmas  vacation  the 
first  thing  to  attract  his  attention  was  a  sign  in  the  window 
from  which  the  students  had  lowered  the  girl.  It  read : 
Rooms  For  Rent,  but  the  rooms  remained  empty.  Milton 
and  the  giantess  were  the  only  two  persons  in  the  house. 
She  said  nothing  more  than  "Good  morning"  and  "Good 
night."  Several  times  he  asked  her  why  Miss  Jones  had 
left;  but  he  soon  gave  up  all  hope  of  elucidation,  for  the 
giantess  would  close  her  mouth  so  firmly  that  her  lips 
would  turn  white. 

Harold  Hollis  discontinued  his  calls.  Milton  never  saw 
him  again  the  rest  of  the  year.  He  concluded  that  Miss 
Jones  had  left  without  delivering  his  message,  for  he  be- 
lieved that  Hollis  knew  nothing  of  his  project — the  project 


202  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

in  which  Hollis  and  he  were  to  work  side  by  side.  Once 
he  was  on  the  point  of  calling  on  Hollis  at  the  fraternity 
house,  but  the  admonition  from  De  Soto — ^that  it  was  best 
not  to  mingle  with  this  "exclusive  set" — prevented  his  visit. 
Milton  decided  that  Hollis  would  visit  him  sometime  soon, 
but  not,  however,  for  assistance  on  his  Calculus.  For  he 
now  had  a  new  instructor;  the  new  schedule  gave  him  a 
more  inspiring  teacher — Doctor  Wellworth.  No  doubt 
Hollis  had  revived  interest  in  his  studies  without  Milton 
urging  him — at  least  Milton  thought  so,  and  he  was  glad 
to  believe  Hollis  was  earning  his  diploma  honestly.  But 
nevertheless  HolHs  would  come  back  once  in  a  while  to  see 
his  old  friend — the  friend  who  was  going  to  help  him  win 
the  girl  of  the  photograph  by  allowing  him  to  assist  in  "the 
good  and  great  purpose."  Yes ;  Hollis  would  return.  How 
often  Milton  sat  in  his  room  of  an  evening  waiting  for  him! 
How  often  he  imagined  he  heard  footfalls  on  the  stairs, 
breathlessly  awaiting  the  knock  which  would  announce  his 
arrival.    But  Hollis  never  came. 

Once  Milton  descended  the  stairs  and  walked  to  the 
room  at  the  end  of  the  hall  on  the  third  floor.  He 
opened  the  door;  the  room  was  empty,  cold  and  silent.  It 
had  not  been  swept  since  the  last  student  had  deserted  it; 
strangely  enough,  there  were  several  chestnut  shells  on  the 
hearth.  He  imagined  he  saw  the  selfsame  woodfire  begin- 
ning to  glow  again,  and  the  boy  in  his  white  pajamas  on  his 
knees  before  it.  The  room  seemed  to  grow  warmer,  and 
the  soft  light  illuminated  the  boy's  ruddy  face.  The  flames 
in  the  grate  rose  higher  and  higher;  two  of  them  reached 
out  curiously,  like  a  pair  of  hungry  arms,  and  drew  one  of 
the  shells  into  the  fire.  The  shell  squirmed  and  writhed 
under  the  heat  which  quickly  consumed  it  leaving  only  a 
gray  weightless  powder.  The  vision  of  Hollis  had  disap- 
peared. The  room  seemed  colder  than  ever.  Milton  hur- 
ried into  the  hall  and  quickly  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
"It  was  only  an  hallucination,"  he  was  whispering  to  him- 
self, as  he  ascended  the  stairs  to  resume  the  reading  of 
De  Soto's  manuscript. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  203 

One  night  during  "prom"  week  a  carriage  rolled  by  the 
house ;  in  it  were  a  girl,  her  mother,  and  a  student. 

"I  used  to  room  there  my  freshman  year,"  said  the 
student. 

"What  a  dark  house !"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"It  is  no  longer  used  as  a  students'  dormitory,"  answered 
the  boy,  by  way  of  explanation. 

"The  only  light  I  can  see  is  in  a  little  attic  window,"  said 
the  girl,  turning  her  head  to  see  through  the  small  oval- 
shaped  glass  in  the  rear  of  the  carriage,  which  had  already 
passed  the  house  and  was  turning  the  corner. 

"Yes;  a  graduate  student  lives  up  there." 

"All  alone  1"  said  the  girl. 

"Yes ;  they  like  to  live  alone.  He  lived  there  also  at  the 
same  time  I  did.  One  night  he  came  down  to  my  room,  and 
I  showed  him  your  photograph,  but  graduate  students  don't 
care  much  about  girls." 

"They  are  more  like  dead  men,  aren't  they?"  said  the 
mother.  "They  become  so  buried  in  their  books  that  they 
look  like  worms." 

"Didn't  he  say  anything  at  all  when  you  showed  him 
the  picture?"  asked  the  girl. 

"I  believe  he  said  you  looked  Hke  a  girl  of  considerable 
influence,"  was  the  reply. 

The  girl  sighed  softly  but  said  nothing  as  she  sank  back 
among  the  cushions. 

"He  used  to  sit  up  there  day  and  night  making  thread 
models,"  said  the  student,  for  the  sake  of  conversation. 

"What  are  thread  models  ?"  asked  the  mother. 

"Oh,"  said  the  student,  "they  have  something  to  do  with 
his  geometry ;  our  landlady  used  to  say  they  looked  like 
mouse  traps,  and  they  did  too." 

"Mouse  traps !"  exclaimed  the  mother.  "What  a  rat  he 
must  be !" 

And  the  carriage  rolled  on. 

A  few  hours  later  the  student  and  the  girl  were  dancing 
to  a  soft  dreamy  waltz. 

"Do   you   remember   that   glorious   night   last   summer 


204  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

when  you  and  I  were  in  the  moonhght  on  the  balcony  ?"  he 
said. 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  She  closed  her  eyes.  He  was 
pressing  her  tenderly  to  his  bosom.  It  seemed  her  feet  no 
longer  touched  the  floor;  she  had  risen  and  was  floating 
through  the  air.  She  was  no  longer  aware  of  the  presence 
of  the  dancers,  and  the  music  seemed  far  below  her. 

"You  refused  me  then,"  he  continued. 

"No,"  she  whispered  softly.    "I  only  said  I  must  wait." 

"And  you  have  waited;  it  has  seemed  like  years  to  me. 
You  know  how  deeply  I  love  you.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  ? 
Why  don't  you  promise  me  that  you'll  be  mine  now?  To- 
night !" 

Through  her  closed  eyes  she  could  see  a  lonely  light  in 
a  little  window — a  window  among  the  stars. 

"I  must  wait,"  she  murmured,  "I  must  wait." 

How  lonely  Paul  Milton  was  that  night  and  all  the  nights 
that  followed !  There  was  a  time  when  he  loved  to  be  alone. 
When  he  lived  in  Sweeny's  garret  across  the  street,  he  took 
delight  in  his  solitude,  and  yet  that  garret,  with  its  torn 
rag  carpet  and  its  soiled  walls,  was  anything  but  comfort- 
able and  inviting.  But  here,  where  everything  was  bright 
and  clean,  where  the  new  landlady  had  the  light  burning  for 
him  every  evening  when  he  returned  to  his  room,  where  a 
fresh  bouquet  of  fragrant  flowers  was  placed  on  his  desk 
every  morning  (for  Miss  Jones  had  informed  the  giantess 
to  do  this  as  soon  as  Spring  came) — here  he  was  unbearably 
lonely  and  sad,  waiting  for  the  boy  who  never  came. 

Recitations  closed.  How  happy  he  was  to  leave  that 
lonely  house!  He  took  home  with  him  De  Soto's  manu- 
script together  with  a  whole  trunkful  of  books  and  jour- 
nals, which  he  had,  by  special  permission,  taken  from  the 
university  library  for  reference  in  writing  his  thesis.  The 
thought  of  knowing  that,  after  working  hard  in  the  little 
studio  under  his  mother's  roof,  he  would  return  to  the  uni- 
versity as  proctor  in  Harold  Hollis'  fraternity  made  his 
vacation  pass  quickly  and  happily. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    THIRD    PROPOSAL 

The  Bennetts  did  not  entertain  an  elaborate  house-party 
at  Willow  Lodge  that  summer.  Mr.  Harold  Hollis  had  been 
introduced  to  Norford  the  preceding  summer.  It  was  best 
now  to  entertain  him  more  privately.  Solitude  was  neces- 
sary for  Harold  and  Allaine,  thought  the  parents,  if  they 
would  ripen  "the  affair"  into  an  engagement. 

Allaine  had  never  mentioned  to  her  father  or  mother 
either  of  the  two  proposals  of  marriage  which  Harold  Hollis 
had  made  to  her. 

It  was  Mr.  Bennett  who  invited  Harold  to  spend  the 
summer  with  them  in  the  mountains.  Hollis  was  delighted 
to  accept  the  invitation  to  the  cottage.  For  what  could  be 
more  blissful  than  being  near  Allaine  for  the  entire  summer? 

Mr.  Bennett's  attachment  to  Harold  grew  closer  each 
year,  and  the  discovery  that  the  boy  had  made  the  same 
"frat"  as  Mr.  Bennett  himself  doubly  served  to  strengthen 
the  bond  of  friendship  between  them.  Allaine  noticed  that 
her  father  was  again  wearing  the  Greek  letters  which  he 
had  earlier  discarded.  He  felt  that  his  youth  had  returned, 
and  he  was  re-living  those  happy  college  days.  In  his 
actions,  if  not  in  his  years,  he  seemed  as  young  as  Hollis 
himself.  He  had  long  ago  looked  forward  to  the  marriage 
of  this  boy  and  his  daughter,  and  he  firmly  believed  that 
this  very  summer  on  the  mountain  top  would  open  the  bud 
of  courtship. 

The  two  boys — for  they  were  more  like  two  boys  than 
two  men — would  tramp  for  hours  each  morning  in  the  cool 
shade  of  the  mountain  pines.  On  these  strolls  they  never 
mentioned  the  subject  which  had  earlier  interested  Mr.  Ben- 


2o6  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

nett :  the  immorality  in  college  life.  Mr.  Bennett  had  com- 
pletely forgotten  Paul  Milton;  he  even  neglected  to  take 
his  Emersons  with  him  that  summer.  The  presence  of 
Mollis  was  far  more  interesting  to  him  just  then  than  the 
pages  which  had  formerly  given  him  such  infinite  pleasure. 
He  did  not  even  deem  it  necessary  to  mention  morality  and 
cleanliness  in  the  company  of  this  clean  and  upright  youth ; 
for  he  knew  that  he  had  refused  to  follow  his  own  father's 
loose  counsel,  which  alone  would  have  brought  ruin  to  many 
a  son. 

Harold  had  never  spoken  seriously  to  Mr.  Bennett  about 
Allaine.  She  must  first  be  willing  to  give  her  hand,  and 
then  he  believed  her  father's  consent  would  be  easily  ac- 
quired. Now,  however,  since  Harold  felt  that  the  father 
had  considerable  influence  over  his  daughter  and  might  be 
able  to  help  him  in  his  courtship,  he  approached  the  question. 

"We  seem  to  be  pretty  good  friends — you  and  I,"  said 
Harold  one  morning,  as  they  were  strolling  along  a  moun- 
tain path  to  see  the  sunrise. 

Mr.  Bennett  had  his  arm  across  the  boy's  shoulders. 

"The  best  of  friends,"  he  assured  him. 

"Then  I  can  expect  your  assistance  in  something,"  ven- 
tured Harold. 

"In  all  things,"  responded  Mr.  Bennett. 

"I  am  not  going  to  try  to  longer  conceal  the  fact  that  I 
love  Allaine  dearly,"  began  the  boy. 

"Why  should  you?"  asked  Mr.  Bennett  happily.  "It 
is  only  natural  that  a  young  man  should  fall  in  love.  I  did 
it  myself  once  upon  a  time." 

"Did  you  have  a  hard  time  getting  Mrs.  Bennett  to  accept 
your  proposal  ?"  asked  Harold  somewhat  reluctantly. 

"I  met  her  at  the  promenade  during  my  senior  year  at 
college,  and  we  were  married  the  following  June." 

"That  was  quick  work,"  said  the  boy.  "But  Allaine 
doesn't  seem  so  willing.  I  have  known  her  now  for  two 
years  and  have  been  corresponding  with  her  regularly.  1 
have  proposed  twice — once  on  the  balcony  at  Willow  Lodge 
last  summer,  and  again  at  the  'prom'  this  winter." 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  207 

"And  without  success!"  said  Mr.  Bennett  eagerly;  for 
he  was  glad  to  get  the  information  which  Allaine  was  keep- 
ing from  him. 

"She  didn't  exactly  refuse  me  either  time;  she  merely 
asked  me  to  postpone  it — to  wait,  but  I  love  her  too  much 
to  wait." 

"It  is  probably  for  your  own  good  that  she  has  asked 
you  to  wait,  Harold,"  said  Mr.  Bennett.  "Allaine  is  a  very 
sensible  girl;  very  often  more  sensible  than  I.  She  has 
never  mentioned  the  fact  to  me,  but  no  doubt  she  was  think- 
ing of  your  next  two  years  at  the  university." 

"Yes ;  that  is  just  what  she  said.  But  you  see  I  was  two 
years  later  entering  college — ^two  years  later  than  the  aver- 
age student,  and  now  I  have  reached  the  age  when  most 
of  the  fellows  graduate.  I  am  not  anxious  for  a  degree; 
I  feel  that  I  have  a  good  enough  education  now,  considering 
my  two  years  of  foreign  travel  with  Dad.  I'm  not  working 
for  a  diploma — I  don't  want  a  diploma;  I  want  a  wife.  1 
wish  to  get  away  from  college,  and  get  into  a  home  of  my 
own.  I  am  old  enough  to  love  and  support  a  girl.  I  am 
not  a  simpleton ;  it  isn't  a  case  of  'puppy  love.'  This  affair 
between  Allaine  and  me  is  no  illusion,  honestly,  Mr.  Ben- 
nett ;  not  on  my  part  at  least.  It  is  true  love — real  love — nec- 
essary love.  I  am  looking  for  a  life's  companion.  My  mother 
is  dead ;  you  know  that.  My  father  has  his  own  interests  ;  he 
will  probably  marry  again — maybe  very  soon.  And  then  his 
house  could  never  be  a  home  to  me.  What  I  want  is  a  home  of 
my  own,  and  a  wife  to  keep  me  straight  and  happy.  If  I  felt 
that  Allaine  and  I  could  marry,  say  within  a  year,  my  future 
would  be  a  paradise;  but  now  it  is  only  filled  with  doubt, 
longing  and  sorrow  which  may,  perhaps,  result  in  ruin.'* 

Mr.  Bennett  could  hear  an  occasional  sob  as  the  boy 
emptied  his  heart  to  him.  The  reference  to  his  deceased 
mother  had  filled  the  elder  man  with  compassion  and  a 
deeper  love  for  Harold  Hollis.  He  took  Harold's  right  hand 
and  pressed  it  firmly. 

"Poor  fellow,  I  shall  do  what  I  can  for  you.  I  shall 
talk  with  Allaine  today,  and  then  you  can  arrange  a  stroll 


2o8  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

in  the  moonlight  tonight;  and  here's  hoping  you  are  more 
successful  this  time." 

"This  is  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Harold. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  summit,  and  the  sun- 
rise never  appeared  more  glorious  and  brilliant  to  the  hope- 
ful young  collegiate. 

We  shall  not  record  here  the  conversation  which  took 
place  between  Allaine  and  her  father  that  evening  while 
Harold  was  bathing,  shaving  and  dressing  for  dinner.  Dur- 
ing the  interview  she  never  mentioned  the  name  of  Paul 
Milton  nor  the  word  reform.  She  knew  that  Harold  Hollis 
had  driven  that  name  and  that  word  from  her  father's 
memory.  She  knew  that  had  Harold  Hollis  been  her  own 
brother,  her  father  could  not  have  loved  him  more.  She 
knew  that  if  she  refused  to  gratify  her  father's  wish  to  claim 
the  boy  as  a  son-in-law,  she  would  break  her  father's  heart ; 
and  rather  than  break  his  she  decided  to  break  her  own. 

The  soft,  liquid  notes  of  the  Japanese  gongs  floated  out 
into  the  garden  where  they  first  kissed  the  cool  mountain 
roses  and  were  then  wafted  through  the  lattice  into  Harold's 
chamber.  To  him,  that  dinner  call  was  nothing  more  than 
Allaine's  sweet  musical  voice  whispering  her  consent — • 
whispering  that  oft-postponed  promise,  which  was  to  unite 
their  souls. 

How  radiant  and  immaculate  he  appeared  at  table! 
How  his  eyes  seemed  to  sparkle  with  ecstasy !  Mr.  Bennett 
told  several  humorous  stories  to  keep  Harold  smiling,  in 
order  that  Allaine  might  constantly  see  his  perfect,  solid, 
w'hite  teeth.  Allaine — she,  too,  looked  beautiful,  but  it  was 
that  peculiar,  etheral  beauty  which  veils  the  countenance 
when  the  soul  is  suffering.  She  smiled  also,  but  her  smile 
was  delicate  and  sweet — as  sweet  as  the  pale  lilies  in  the 
centerpiece;  it  did  not  seem  to  reflect  that  radiance  which 
beamed  upon  it  from  across  the  table — a  radiance  more 
splendrous  than  the  sunrise  that  morning. 

"We  shall  have  coffee  served  on  the  veranda,  James,'* 
said  Mrs.  Bennett. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  209 

The  sun  had  set,  but  the  sky  was  still  bright— so  bright 
that  the  moon  was  only  faintly  visible  behind  the  pine  woods. 

"Let  us  walk  to  the  summit,  Allaine,"  suggested  Harold. 
"The  pine  trees  do  not  stand  in  the  way  of  the  moon  there. 
We  shall  watch  it  rise  higher  and  higher." 

Allaine  placed  her  untouched  coffee  on  the  mahogany 
tray. 

"Perhaps  father  and  mother  would  like  to  accompany 
us,"  she  said,  gazing  pleadingly  at  Mr.  Bennett,  but  she 
imagined  his  face  frowned  mercilessly. 

"We  shall  remain  on  the  veranda,"  said  the  father.  "We 
have  seen  the  moon  rise  very  often  before." 

Harold  offered  Allaine  his  arm,  and  they  strolled  out 
through  the  garden,  among  the  flower-covered  bushes. 

"How  happy  they  are  1"  said  Mrs.  Bennett,  as  they  dis- 
appeared behind  the  tall  pines. 

"Just  as  happy  as  we  were  then,"  said  Mr.  Bennett. 

"Just  as  happy  as  we  are  now  and  ever  shall  be,"  added 
the  wife.  "It  is  this  which  has  brought  us  together  again; 
it  has  in  fact  rewedded  us  and  awakened  the  old  love  of 
former  years  and  dispelled  the  cold  indifference  which 
seemed  to  have  invaded  our  life." 

Consequently  there  were  more  than  one  pair  of  lovers 
watching  the  moon  that  night. 

Harold  and  Allaine  were  slowly  ascending  the  mountain 
path.  Once  they  heard  a  whip-poor-will  call  to  its  mate, 
and  afterwards  there  was  only  moonlight  and  silence.  Each 
step  was  bringing  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  her,  and  each 
step  was  taking  her  farther  and  farther  from  the  boy  she 
loved.  By  the  time  they  had  reached  the  summit,  the  moon 
had  risen  above  the  pine  trees  and  was  shining  with  un- 
usual splendor. 

"You  know  why  I  have  brought  you  here,  Allaine,"  he 
began. 

"Yes ;  Father  has  told  me  all." 

"He  told  you  that  my  father  is  about  to  marry  again, 
and  that  I  shall  then  be  all  alone  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 


210  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

"And  you  are  going  to  brighten  that  loneliness  of  mine 
just  as  the  moonlight  is  brightening  the  solitude  of  the  pine 
wood.  You  are  going  to  make  me  happy,  AUaine,  by  scat- 
tering the  darkness  which  surrounds  me.  You  alone  can  do 
that.  You  are  going  to  promise  me  tonight — now — ^that 
no  one  shall  ever  take  you  from  me.  You  will  not  ask  me 
to  wait  any  longer;  will  you,  Allaine?  Speak,  Allaine, 
speak — tell  me  you  are  mine." 

She  looked  out  across  the  mountains — ^to  the  east — to  the 
north — to  the  west — to  the  south.  They  seemed  like  the 
mighty  waves  of  a  silver  ocean — waves  which  were  coming 
nearer  and  nearer — waves  which  were  about  to  claim  her 
and  carry  her  away  from  the  boy  she  had  loved  and  lived 
for.  Where  was  the  ship  that  was  coming  to  save  her? 
Where  was  her  rescuer?  Where  was  the  little  head  light 
which  had  heretofore,  at  just  such  perilous  moments  as  this, 
given  her  the  strength  to  resist  and  to  wait  ? 

Ah!  the  night  was  clear  enough,  but  the  old-fashioned 
oil-lamp  was  too  far  away.  Yet,  at  that  very  hour,  Paul 
Milton  was  working  under  its  steady,  golden  glow. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?"  he  cried.  "You  are  tearing 
my  heart.    Why  do  you  let  me  suffer  ?" 

"Do  not  suffer,"  she  murmured.  "I  know  how  terrible 
it  is  to  suffer ;  I  shall  relieve  you.    I  promise ;  I  promise." 

"Allaine!  Allaine!" 

Her  head  fell  upon  his  bosom,  and  she  began  to  sob  piti- 
fully; the  waves  had  claimed  her — his  strong  arms  were 
drawing  her  closer  and  closer  to  his  heart.  He,  too,  was 
weeping,  but  they  were  tears  of  happiness  which  trickled 
down  his  ruddy  cheeks  and  nestled  among  the  curls  of  her 
soft  bright  hair. 

In  the  fall,  Hollis  returned  to  the  university,  where  he 
was  to  spend  one  more  year.  Then  they  were  to  be  mar- 
ried in  June.  Yes;  Mrs.  Bennett  had  arranged  all  that— 
Allaine  and  Harold  would  be  united  in  the  month  of  June 
on  the  anniversary  of  her  mother's  wedding.  No  formal 
announcement  of  the  engagement  was  to  be  made  until 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  211 

late  in  the  winter,  when  Mrs.  Bennett  planned  to  send  out 
cards  to  that  effect.  Nevertheless,  her  most  intimate 
friend,  Mrs.  Samson  Pokes,  was  informed  of  everything 
as  soon  as  the  Bennetts  returned  to  Willow  Lodge.  But 
when  that  fashionable  lady  hears  anything — well,  Mrs. 
Samson  pokes  it  into  several  other  ears  as  well.  Conse- 
quently, Allaine's  engagement  to  Harold  Hollis  soon  became 
the  chief  topic  of  conversation  in  every  social  circle  of 
Norford. 

The  Pokes  twins  had  met  Mr.  Hollis  at  the  time  of  the 
house  party  at  Willow  Lodge,  when  they  adored  him.  How 
often  they  spoke  of  him  and  his  bonne  mine  between  them- 
selves !  and  to  think  that  he  never  paid  the  slightest  atten- 
tion to  their  French  Songs  and  had  proposed  to  Allaine 
Bennett,  who  didn't  know  a  word  of  French  and  who  low- 
ered herself  to  visit  the  common  folk  in  the  has  guar  tiers! 
They  consoled  themselves  by  concluding  that  he  had  no 
sense  whatever,  however  handsome  he  might  be ;  and  Mrs. 
Pokes  agreed  with  them — although  she  gushingly  compli- 
mented Mrs.  Wallace  Bennett  very  highly  and  sincerely  on 
her  future  son-in-law. 

Allaine  was  not  paying  much  attention  to  the  prepara- 
tions which  were  being  made  for  the  reception  and  for  the 
wedding  too.  It  seemed  to  her  that  everything  was  being 
planned  centuries  in  advance.  She  left  all  to  her  mother, — . 
even  the  selection  of  the  bridesmaids, — ^because  Mrs.  Ben- 
nett knew  how  to  arrange  and  manage  such  things  exquis- 
itely, and  she  did  them  so  happily  and  enthusiastically  too. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Allaine  returned  to  her  charity  work. 
While  calling  among  the  tenements,  she  was  able  to  resume 
her  secret  visits  to  Alice  Milton.  She  had  decided  to  tell 
the  widow  everything,  because  she  knew  she  would  learn 
of  it  sooner  or  later.  She  said  that,  to  please  her  father, 
she  had  consented  to  marry  his  college  friend's  son.  She 
admitted  that  Harold  was  a  gentleman  in  every  way,  and 
that  he  loved  her  dearly,  but  that  it  had  broken  her  heart 
to  accept  him ;  because  she  had  hoped  and  prayed  that  she 
might  marry  the  widow's  son — the  boy  whom  she  had  in- 


212  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

duced  her  father  to  send  to  the  university — ^^the  only  boy 
whom  she  ever  had  loved  or  ever  would  love.  There  was 
one  thing  which  helped  to  solace  her:  the  fact  that  Paul 
had  never  known  that  she  loved  him,  that  her  love  for  him 
had  not  awakened  his  love  for  her,  which  might  have  kept 
him  away  from  his  studies  and  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
success.  And  she  made  the  widow  promise  she  would  con- 
tinue to  keep  this  secret  forever — the  secret  of  which  only 
Alice  and  Allaine  knew.  How  it  pained  the  widow !  For 
she  had  longed  to  call  Allaine  her  daughter  more  ardently 
than  Mr.  Bennett  had  longed  to  call  Harold  his  son.  She 
had  believed  with  certainty  that  the  day  would  soon  come 
when  she  and  Allaine  would  live  together  and  do  all  they 
could  for  Paul,  but  now  all  her  hopes  were  blighted,  and 
she  sat  beside  the  girl,  and  both  of  them  wept  bitterly.  In 
the  presence  of  her  father  and  her  mother,  Allaine  managed 
to  keep  up  her  spirits;  it  was  only  at  the  widow's  cottage 
that  she  shed  her  tears.  The  widow  was  the  only  human 
soul  with  whom  she  shared  her  sorrow — the  only  person  in 
Norford  who  could  really  comfort  her. 


CHAPTETR  XIX 


THE  FINAL  IMPETUS 


The  proctor's  room  in  the  house  which  the  fraternity 
had  leased  from  the  university  as  their  temporary  quarters 
was  Httle  larger  than  an  alcove.  It  was,  in  fact,  originally 
intended  for  use  in  connection  with  the  very  spacious  room 
adjoining  it.  The  partition  between  these  two  rooms  was 
very  thin,  but  the  door  through  this  partition  had  been 
heavily  bolted  from  the  other  side.  Milton  entered  his  room 
through  another  door — one  which  opened  into  a  general 
hallway.  He  removed  the  desk,  the  chair,  the  rug,  the  cot 
and  the  lamp  from  Miss  Jones'  attic,  as  she  had  requested 
him  to  do ;  he  also  decorated  the  new  walls  with  the  pictures 
of  his  old  friends — the  famous  mathematicians,  which  De 
Soto  had  given  him.  After  Milton  had  hung  his  clothes  in 
the  narrow  closet,  the  janitor  carried  his  empty  trunk  to 
the  fourth  floor,  and  placed  it  in  the  room  just  overhead. 

The  house  was  not  large  enough  to  domicile  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  fraternity;  only  the  juniors  lived  here.  The 
other  members  had  found  quarters  elsewhere.  Harold  Hollis 
was  of  course  a  junior  now,  and,  as  chance  would  have  it, 
he  and  his  roommate  occupied  the  spacious  room  next  to 
Milton's  alcove  and  separated  from  it  by  the  bolted  door. 

Milton  had  just  gone  to  bed  for  the  first  time  in  his  new 
room.  He  was  half  asleep,  when  he  felt  some  one  slap  him 
on  the  thigh  in  a  friendly  way.  He  woke  up  with  a  start 
and  found  a  boy  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  cot.  The  room 
was  almost  dark ;  there  was  just  enough  light  for  Milton 
to  observe  that  the  boy  was  in  white  pajamas.  He  could  not 
see  his  face,  but  plainly  detected  the  odor  of  liquor  on  his 
breath. 


214  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Milton. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  hiccough  between  the 
two  words.  "I  must  be  in  the  wrong  bed;"  and  he  stag- 
gered through  the  door. 

A  few  minutes  later  that  boy  was  fast  asleep  breathing 
heavily  in  his  own  bed,  which  was  beside  Milton's  and  sep- 
arated from  it  only  by  the  thin  partition  already  referred  to. 

Milton  never  found  out  who  it  was  that  made  the  visit ; 
he  didn't  care  to  know.  The  visitor  himself  never  knew 
what  had  happened. 

The  term  rolled  on.  Milton  had  remembered  De  Soto's 
advice:  not  to  mingle  too  much  with  the  "exclusive  set.'" 
In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  living  at  a  house  in  which 
every  room  was  occupied,  he  found  himself  more  lonely 
than  he  had  been  in  Miss  Jones'  house  after  it  had  been 
vacated  by  all  except  himself. 

Although  the  rooms  were  luxuriously  furnished,  al- 
though they  were  palaces  of  comfort,  nevertheless,  the  stu- 
dents cared  very  little  to  be  in  them.  They  were  usually 
at  recitations,  ball  games,  "movies,"  theatres,  taverns,  or 
strolling  about  town.  The  house  was  a  dormitory  in  the 
truest  sense — in  it  they  did  little  more  than  sleep.  After 
dinner  in  the  evening,  they  rarely  returned  to  their  rooms 
until  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  when  they  would  open  a  text- 
book and  study  for  perhaps  fifteen  minutes,  then  either  go 
to  bed  or  leave  the  house  again,  some  of  them  remaining 
out  all  night  and  returning  in  the  morning  to  find  the  lights 
still  burning  over  their  deserted  desks.  On  Saturdays,  the 
majority  of  them  left  town  to  be  gone  until  the  following 
Monday  or  Tuesday. 

Milton  was  not  at  all  astounded  when  he  attended  the 
first  Junior  faculty  meeting  of  the  year  and  learned  that 
half  of  the  men  in  the  fraternity  house  were  on  probation 
and  most  of  the  remaining  ones  on  official  warning.  He 
began  to  understand  why  there  had  been  "ten  exclusions" 
in  his  division  the  preceding  year.  The  poor  boy  at  one 
time  believed  that  most  students  studied  as  conscientiously 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  215 

as  he  himself  had  studied  in  Mr.  Sweeny's  garret,  but  now 
he  was  learning  differently.  But  as  he  was  requested  not 
to  report  anything  until  the  students  "attempted  to  burn 
down  the  house,"  he  kept  silent.  He  understood  also  that 
Oswald's  being  an  uninspiring  teacher  was  not  the  only  rea- 
son why  Harold  Hollis  had  neglected  his  studies. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  not  lost  hope.  He  still  believed 
in  Harold  Hollis.  If  HolHs  had  neglected  his  studies,  he 
would  profit  by  the  serious  results  of  it.  He  still  entertained 
the  hope  that  he  would  have  him  as  a  fellow-worker  for 
"the  good  and  great  purpose."  He  could  not,  however,  quite 
understand  the  change  which  had  come  over  the  boy.  Nev- 
ertheless it  only  served  to  deepen  his  love  for  him.  He 
wondered  why  the  boy  never  came  into  his  room,  as  he  had 
done  in  preceding  years.  Milton  never  went  into  Hollis' 
room,  because  he  had  the  feeling  that  a  proctor  was  not 
welcome  there.  Earlier  in  the  year  Hollis  used  to  speak 
when  they  met  on  the  stairs,  but  later  he  seemed  to  avoid 
him.  Often  Milton  would  not  see  him  for  weeks.  But  this 
separation  only  brought  Hollis  nearer  to  him.  Milton  was 
happy — happy  that  he  was  again  under  the  same  roof  with 
the  boy  he  loved — happy  that  he  always  slept  at  his  side, 
even  though  there  was  a  thin  partition  between  them. 

Milton  never  closed  the  door  of  his  own  room.  He  kept 
it  open  day  and  night  whether  he  was  at  work  or  asleep. 
It  seemed  to  bring  him  nearer  to  the  students,  however  dis- 
tant they  were  to  him.  Hollis  often  passed  the  open  door 
and,  on  entering  his  own  room,  would  close  his  sometimes 
with  a  violent  slam ;  that  slam  always  pained  Milton.  There 
was  one  night  in  each  week  when  the  fraternity  marched 
to  its  tomb.  That  night  the  house  was  left  in  total  dark- 
ness, and  black  shades  were  drawn  over  all  the  windows. 
This  added  much  to  the  loneliness  of  the  proctor.  He  was 
always  glad  to  hear  the  clock  strike  midnight  and  to  hear 
the  footsteps  of  the  returning  fraternity  come  nearer  and 
nearer.  He  was  glad  when  he  heard  Hollis  pass  his  open 
door — ^glad  to  be  near  him  again  on  the  other  side  of  the 
partition.    Such  a  thin  partition ! 


2i6  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

Milton  still  upheld  Hollis  as  a  representative  student. 
He  still  considered  him  upright  and  clean — an  example 
whom  other  students  might  well  follow.  What  Milton 
wanted  to  do  for  Hollis  he  wanted  to  do  for  every  student 
in  the  house,  for  every  student  in  the  university :  he  wanted 
to  preserve  their  manhood  and  their  honor. 

The  thesis  was  progressing  rapidly.  He  had  completed 
the  greater  part  of  it  during  the  summer.  He  had  worked 
almost  all  the  problems  suggested  in  De  Soto's  manuscript, 
and  was  now  engaged  in  drawing,  with  brilliantly  colored 
inks,  the  final  figures  which  were  to  accompany  them.  He 
had  procured  a  package  of  paper  of  the  exact  size  and 
quality  which  De  Soto  himself  had  used,  for  Milton  intended 
to  insert  the  problems  at  the  proper  places  throughout  the 
manuscript  and  wanted  his  work  to  conform  accurately  with 
the  professor's.  The  quality  of  Milton's  paper  was  the 
same,  but  the  quality  of  the  work  which  Milton  had  placed 
upon  it  was  far  superior  to  that  of  the  scientist.  There  was 
indeed  as  much  art  as  there  was  science  in  Milton's  thesis, 
which  formed  a  stack  of  papers  just  as  high  as  that  which 
the  geometer  had  given  him  with  the  warning  to  preserve 
them  carefully. 

Milton's  thesis  had  not  banished  his  earlier  experiences 
from  his  mind ;  it  did  not  affect  him  as  his  music  had  done. 
Leech,  Sweeny  and  May  Stanley  often  loomed  up  to  remind 
him,  it  seemed,  that  he  had  not  yet  performed  that  other 
duty.  At  times  when  he  was  troubled  most  by  these  mental 
storms,  he  found  shelter  in  his  thesis — shelter,  but  not 
escape.  The  thesis  did  not  stop  the  downpour — the  torrent 
of  thought,  which  beat  upon  his  brain ;  it  merely  served  to 
lessen  the  pelts,  for  he  could  always  hear  it  splashing  and 
dashing  above  him,  far  away  perhaps,  but  always  within 
earshot.  During  the  night  he  sometimes  awoke  suddenly 
with  the  feeling  that  a  great  weight  was  resting  on  his  brain 
or  that  his  head  was  clamped  in  a  vise.  The  voice  was 
still  calling  him — the  inaudible  voice.  The  music  from  his 
vioHn  might  have  silenced  that  voice,  but  Milton  did  not 
wish  to  silence  it.    He  wanted  to  be  awake.    He  wanted  to 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  217 

be  alert,  ready  to  respond  to  the  cry  of  the  vulture.  He 
wanted  to  know  and  understand  his  fellow-men  as  they 
were.  Miss  Jones'  optimism  had  vanished  almost  simul- 
taneously with  Miss  Jones  herself. 

He  only  began  to  realize  how  wonderful  his  solitude  was. 
It  was  not  the  same  solitude  which  his  music  had  produced 
— ^the  solitude  which  isolated  him  bodily  and  mentally  from 
his  fellow-beings.  It  was  a  solitude  which  was  bringing 
them  into  every  hour  of  his  daily  life.  It  was  an  isolation 
which  was  uniting  him  to  them  inseparately.  He  was  closer 
— far  closer  to  them  now  than  he  would  have  been  had  he 
allowed  himself  to  throw  his  arms  about  their  necks. 

Allaine  Bennett  had  indeed  selected  the  right  boy  to 
send  to  the  university  to  accomplish  that  which  her  father 
had  desired.  Mr.  Bennett  had  sent  a  boy  who  saw  far  more 
deeply  into  the  causes  of  conditions  than  Mr.  Bennett  him- 
self had  seen.  Mr.  Bennett  saw  them  only  from  the  point 
of  view  of  a  student.  Milton  had  seen  that  far  when  he 
had  completed  his  senior  year  in  Sweeny's  garret.  It  was 
only  natural  that  Mr.  Bennett  grew  impatient  because  the 
youth  had  not  acted  earlier.  But  Providence  knew  better 
than  Mr.  Bennett ;  so  did  Allaine.  Providence  was  showing 
Milton  the  matter  from  all  points  and  angles.  Providence 
was  holding  the  boy  back  until  he  saw  all  and  the  more 
important  causes  which  lay  at  the  very  root  of  the  immor- 
ality which  flourished  around  the  university. 

Allaine  had  once  told  her  father  that  the  reason  why 
Paul  Milton  had  not  undertaken  or  agitated  a  reform  was 
because  the  things  he  had  seen  had  not  come  close  enough 
to  the  boy's  own  heart.  The  girl  was  quite  right.  If  that 
moment  should  ever  arrive  when  the  boy's  own  heart  were 
pierced,  then  the  bulb,  now  latent  as  a  weight  on  his  mind, 
would  burst;  and  it  would  bloom,  nourished  by  the  warm 
blood  gushing  from  the  wound  and  by  the  penetrating  ray 
of  light  which  had  caused  it. 

It  was  next  to  the  last  day  of  the  term,  just  before  the 
Christmas  vacation.     The  students  were  closeted  in  their 


2i8  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

rooms  with  tutors,  preparing  for  the  last  examination.  As 
in  Coddington's  case,  their  pleasures  had  rendered  them 
mentally  unfit  and  too  stupid  for  self-reliance  and  applica- 
tion. Milton  had  solved  and  copied  the  last  problem  in 
De  Soto's  manuscript,  and  the  two  stacks  of  papers — the 
professor's  work  and  Milton's  thesis — were  on  his  desk  com- 
pleted. The  thought  of  a  Christmas  vacation  without  the 
burden  of  mental  labor  was  a  happy  one,  and  he  had  visions 
of  the  restful  three  weeks  he  would  spend  with  his  mother 
at  the  little  cottage  with  no  thesis  to  take  him  from  her. 
He  decided  to  pack  his  trunk  at  once. 

The  janitor  was  out,  and  Milton  himself  ascended  the 
stairs  to  the  trunk  room,  which  was  just  over  his  alcove. 
While  searching  for  his  own  among  the  many  other  trunks, 
he  noticed  a  picture — an  un framed  picture  standing  on  a 
wooden  box.  It  was  a  picture  of  a  football  squad  and  was 
rather  faded.  Nevertheless  he  could  plainly  distinguish 
the  faces  of  the  players — especially  the  player  in  the  center 
of  the  group,  who  was  no  other  than  Tom  Kuhler.  Some 
one  had  written  across  the  picture  this  inscription:  The 
Varsity  Squad  that  won  the  Greatest  Victory  in  the  History 
of  the  University. 

Milton  had  always  learned  much  in  garrets — unpleasant 
things  which  he  would  rather  not  have  learned,  but  things 
which  seemed  nevertheless  to  lie  in  wait  for  him — things 
which  destiny  would  not  permit  him  to  escape.  He  picked  up 
the  picture  to  view  it  more  closely,  but  just  as  his  eyes  were 
about  to  meet  Tom  Kuhler's  they  fell  on  something  else: 
behind  the  picture  stood  four  small  bottles  and  four  syringes, 
one  of  which  was  plainly  labeled  "HOLLIS."  Milton  felt 
himself  grow  deathly  sick ;  his  face  became  ghastly  pale,  and 
he  sank  to  the  floor  in  a  faint.  When  he  came  to,  he  was  cov- 
ered with  a  cold  sweat.  He  arose  and  staggered  from  the 
room,  his  knees  trembling  as  though  he  were  being  pursued 
by  a  poisonous  serpent — the  serpent  of  victory,  which  he  had 
awakened  from  its  long  sleep,  coiled  up  in  a  nest  of  slime. 

Little  wonder  that  the  boy  always  heard  that  splashing 
tempest  above !    When  De  Soto  had  assigned  the  proctor  to 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  219 

his  alcove  on  the  third  floor,  he  had  told  him  there  would 
be  nothing  done  overhead  to  disturb  him.  If  every  room  on 
that  fourth  floor  had  been  occupied  and  if  in  every  room 
each  night  the  students  had  executed  a  war  dance,  it  would 
not  have  disturbed  Milton  one  small  fraction  as  much  as 
this  secret  cure  and  prevention,  which  they  practiced  so 
silently  directly  over  his  head. 

When  he  reached  his  room  he  fell  across  the  bed  and 
wept.  He  lay  there  for  one  hour,  trying  hard  to  control 
himself,  but  in  vain;  it  seemed  a  knife  had  entered  his 
heart,  and  he  could  not  stop  the  wound.  He  was  bleeding — 
bleeding  for  Harold  Hollis — the  boy  whom  he  loved  and 
whom  he  had  hoped  would  help  him  clean  the  university. 

Dusk  was  approaching.  Milton's  eyes  were  red  with 
weeping;  his  head,  as  well  as  his  heart,  was  throbbing  with 
pain.  His  love  for  Hollis  had,  with  this  discovery,  increased 
tenfold,  and  with  it  a  love  for  all  the  students  of  the  uni- 
versity. He  jumped  from  the  bed,  with  a  voice  ringing  in 
his  ears ;  it  may  have  been  the  cry  of  the  vulture,  or  perhaps 
it  was  the  voice  of  God : 

"Go  forward!  Fight  for  your  brother!  Do  not  faint, 
but  fight!  Save  them!  Die  for  them  if  it  must  needs  be! 
Forsake  all!  Sacrifice  all!  Leave  all!  Follow  only  me 
by  leading  the  great  battle  for  Good  and  Right !" 

The  street  lamps  came  on  suddenly  and  illuminated  the 
faces  of  the  great  modern  mathematicians  which  were 
tacked  on  the  wall. 

"What  have  they  done?"  cried  the  voice.  "What  have 
they  done  for  humanity?  What  have  they  cared  for  hu- 
manity ?  Nothing.  They  locked  themselves  up  in  their  gar- 
rets. They  forgot  that  humanity  existed.  They  ignored 
humanity — ignored  it  as  it  sank  lower  and  lower,  crying  for 
help  outside  their  selfish  sanctums.  Souls  were  going  to 
perdition  and  ruin ;  the  Spirit  of  Christian  Brotherhood  was 
going  there  also.  And  what  had  replaced  it?  The  works 
of  genius.  And  what  were  these?  Nonsense — worthless 
stuff  which  would  mold  and  rot  unread  on  the  shelves  of 
our  Hbraries,  black  with  dust  and  darkness !    And  this  was 


220  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

enlightenment !  This  was  progress !  This  was  the  great 
purpose  of  a  university !  This  was  the  purpose  which 
human  love  defeats !  Well  might  it  defeat  it !  Enlighten- 
ment ?  It  is  not  enlightenment ;  it  is  blindness.  It  closes  the 
^es  of  genius  to  suffering  humanity.  It  closes  the  ears  of 
genius  to  the  wails  of  fellow-men.  Burn  your  research! 
and  let  the  heat  from  the  flames  warm  the  icy  heart  which 
has  ceased  to  beat  in  your  cold  inhuman  bosom !  Burn  your 
research !  and  let  the  light  of  the  flames  show  you  the  proper 
path — 'the  path  of  love,  brotherhood,  Christianity — ^the  path 
which  God  has  laid  out  for  you  to  follow !  Burn  your  re- 
search !  and  let  the  roaring  of  the  flames  open  your  ears  to 
the  silent  cries  of  your  suffering  brothers !  Burn  your  re- 
search !  and  scatter  the  ashes  to  the  wind !  Burn  it !  Burn 
it !    Burn  it !" 

Milton  heard  the  crackling  of  a  large  wood  fire  in  Hollis' 
room  and  saw  the  red  reflection  on  the  wall  outside  his 
door.  In  another  moment  he  had  seized  the  thesis,  rushed 
through  the  hall  into  Mollis'  room,  and  hurled  the  stack  of 
papers  among  the  flames.  The  fire  roared;  the  heat  beat 
against  his  face,  flushed  his  cheeks,  and  dried  the  tears  in 
his  eyes — those  large  dark  eyes  which  were  now  beaming 
as  brightly  and  as  wildly  as  the  flames  themselves.  How 
it  thrilled  him  to  see  his  thesis  reduced  to  weightless  ashes — 
the  thesis  on  which  he  had  wasted  a  whole  summer,  and 
which  was  now  leaving  him  free,  as  it  floated  lightly  up  the 
chimney  to  be  scattered  on  the  wind ! 

A  flake  of  the  burned  paper  floated  out  into  the  room. 
Milton  watched  it  drifting  through  the  air.  It  finally  set- 
tled on  Hollis'  desk  just  in  front  of  a  girl's  photograph — 
the  picture  of  Allaine  Bennett.  His  heart  was  wounded 
afresh.  He  took  the  frame  in  his  hands  and  sank  before 
the  hearth  into  the  davenport.  This  was  the  girl  whom  he 
had  so  longed  to  see  united  with  the  boy  he  loved.  This 
girl  who  should  have  been  the  first  and  only  woman  to  re- 
ward Hollis  with  the  sweet  pleasure  which  his  work  for  a 
great  cause  would  have  merited  !  How  much  he  had  wanted 
Hollis  to   enjoy  that  pleasure — the  pleasure  which  could 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  221 

bring  him  nothing  but  happiness  and  smiling  children! 
What  happiness  would  there  be  in  that  union  now  ?  HoUis 
had  tasted  that  pleasure  before  he  had  earned  it,  and,  as 
Alice  Milton  said,  he  was  visited  by  disease.  Some  woman 
had  usurped  the  sacred  rights  and  joys  which  belonged  to 
this  girl  alone.  Some  woman  had  poisoned  the  boy,  and  he 
might  in  turn  poison  this  innocent  girl,  whose  sweet  pure 
face  Milton  now  held  between  his  own  hands.  A  tear  fell 
upon  the  glass  through  which  those  eyes  seemed  to  gaze  so 
knowingly,  so  approvingly.  How  he  had  yearned  to  make 
her  happy  by  preserving  the  manhood  of  the  boy  who  had 
first  shown  him  her  beautiful  face  that  night  before  the  fire- 
place !  What  a  happy  night  that  was  for  Milton !  But  now 
— Alas!  it  was  only  too  true — he  saw  the  shell  consumed 
by  the  flames,  as  it  lay  there,  squirming  and  writhing  with 
pain. 

"Is  your  room  cold?"  asked  a  voice  behind  him. 

He  turned  about  quickly  and  saw  a  boy  lying  on  the  bed 
— a  boy  wrapped  in  an  ash-colored  corduroy  robe.  Milton 
had  not  seen  that  boy's  face  for  an  age.  The  cheeks  were 
no  longer  blooming;  they  seemed  yellow  and  withered  like 
the  halves  of  a  pod  which  has  already  scattered  its  seed. 
The  lips  were  thin  and  colorless;  the  forehead,  no  longer 
smooth.  The  eyes,  which  had  turned  toward  Milton,  were 
dull  and  heavy. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  disturbed  you." 

"No,"  said  Hollis  coolly.  "I'm  not  feeling  very  well,  and 
I  thought  I  would  try  to  sleep  a  little." 

"I  am  sorry  I  awoke  you." 

"It  doesn't  matter;  I  shall  soon  fall  asleep  again. '^ 
Hollis'  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  and  he  turned  his  face 
toward  the  partition. 

Milton  left  the  room  on  tiptoe  and  closed  the  door  softly. 
When  he  reached  his  own,  he  found  that  he  had  unknow- 
ingly carried  Allaine  Bennett's  picture  with  him.  Rather 
than  disturb  Hollis  again,  he  placed  it  upon  his  own  desk. 
The  surrounding  darkness  seemed  to  intensify  the  light 
which  the  street  lamps  cast  upon  the  wall.     He  could  see 


222  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

the  faces  of  the  mathematicians  though  not  distinctly.  They 
had  changed,  it  seemed,  since  he  had  burned  his  research ; 
they  were  sneering  at  him,  and  their  revengeful  eyes  fol- 
lowed him  about  the  room  reproachfully.  He  snatched  the 
pictures  from  the  wall  and  tore  them  into  a  hundred  shreds. 
Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  coat,  and  left  the  room. 

When  he  returned  after  his  dinner,  he  did  not  light  his 
desklamp  immediately,  but  lay  on  his  bed  for  an  hour  or 
two  in  the  darkness.  His  thoughts  were  with  the  boy  in 
the  other  room.  He  imagined  he  could  see  those  hollow 
cheeks  through  the  partition.  How  gladly  he  would  part 
with  his  own  blood  to  restore  them  to  their  former  ruddi- 
ness! Milton's  room  was  growing  cold.  How  he  longed 
to  go  into  Hollis'  room  and  talk  before  the  cheery  woodfire, 
but  he  feared  he  might  disturb  him. 

It  was  too  early  to  retire.  What  should  he  do?  He 
again  donned  his  hat  and  overcoat  for  a  long  walk  through 
the  snow.  In  the  hall  all  was  still  save  for  the  occasional 
moaning  of  the  wind  among  the  rafters  on  the  fourth  floor. 
It  sounded  like  a  serpent  hissing  up  there — a  serpent  which 
had  been  cornered  and  which  was  fighting  to  defend  itself 
against  some  dauntless  hero  who  had  appeared  to  extermi- 
nate it. 

Milton  stopped  outside  Hollis'  door;  he  imagined  he 
heard  the  boy  breathing  heavily.  Should  he  leave  him  alone 
in  the  house?  Suppose  he  should  awaken  and  wish  some 
warm  food.  It  would  not  do  to  allow  him  to  go  out ;  for 
the  thermometer  registered  zero,  and  the  snow  was  falling 
so  abundantly  that  it  stood  a  foot  high  in  the  streets. 

Milton  was  about  to  take  off  his  overcoat  when  he  heard 
the  front  door  open.  Two  boys  entered,  one  helping  the 
other  up  the  steps.  Perhaps  this  "brother"  would  also  help 
the  sick  man,  and  attend  to  getting  him  some  food.  Milton 
felt  more  satisfied,  and  after  the  stairs  were  cleared,  he  de- 
scended and  started  out  for  his  walk. 

The  streets  were  alive  with  students.  It  was  the  last 
night  of  the  term — the  last  night  of  the  old  year  which  they 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  22^ 

would  spend  in  college.  They  were  out  celebrating,  snow- 
balling one  another.  A  dozen  or  more  of  them  stood  before 
a  brilliantly  lighted  saloon. 

"Doc  Leech  has  passed  all  the  men  in  his  division!" 
shouted  one  of  them,  just  as  Milton  was  passing. 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  another. 

"He  has  done  it  for  the  last  five  years,  and  there's  no 
reason  why  he  shouldn't  do  it  again.  I  haven't  done  a 
stroke  of  work  for  him  all  term." 

"Hurrah  for  Leech!  Let's  all  have  a  drink  to  his 
health!" 

And  with  one  accord,  they  filed  through  the  swinging 
doors. 

Milton  walked  on.  Ten  minutes  later  he  passed  53  Mel- 
lon Street.  The  shades  of  the  windows  on  the  second  floor 
were  closely  drawn,  but  on  one  of  them  he  saw  the  shadow 
of  Doctor  Leech  with  a  bottle  lifted  to  his  lips. 

Later  he  met  three  students  from  his  own  house,  stag- 
gering along  and  trying  to  hold  one  another  up.  Not  wish- 
ing to  see  them,  he  turned  into  the  dark  side  street  he  was 
about  to  cross.  After  walking  a  few  squares,  he  heard  the 
twangy  notes  of  an  ancient  piano.  Two  students  opened 
a  door  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  he  saw  several 
couples  dancing  within.  One  couple  in  particular  appeared 
more  conspicuous  to  him  than  the  others ;  he  had  seen  both 
their  pale  worn  faces  before — one  several  years  ago,  the 
other  but  a  few  hours  since.    Milton  groaned. 

Then  it  was  May  Stanley — the  tail  of  the  serpent  of  vic- 
tory— who  had  poisoned  Harold  Hollis.  Milton  hurried 
away,  his  eyes  burning  with  unshed  tears.  If  he  could  only 
enter  that  house  and  persuade  Hollis  to  return  again  to  the 
dormitory.  He  knew  that  the  others  who  were  dancing 
would  laugh  at  him,  but  even  so,  he  must  do  it.  He  turned 
to  retrace  his  steps,  but  he  was  lost.  The  music  had  ceased, 
and  the  house  had  disappeared  as  if  by  magic.  The  night 
was  still ;  and  the  snow  fell  silently  and  thickly  over  all. 

Milton  walked  on — he  knew  not  whither.  He  was  think- 
ing of  all  the  things  that  had  happened  since  his  own  visit 


224  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

to  May  Stanley's  establishment  with  Arch  Coddington,  now 
so  long  ago.  It  seemed  some  invisible  hand  was  leading  him 
where  he  could  have  a  last  glance  at  those  things  which 
should  incite  him  to  reform  the  community.  It  was  growing 
colder  and  colder.  The  icy  wind  pierced  his  overcoat,  and 
cut  into  his  back.  He  began  to  tremble  and  shiver ;  his  teeth 
clattered.  He  was  lonely.  Even  a  kennel  would  be  com- 
fortable; even  a  dog  would  be  company.  But  a  light  in 
the  lower  windows  made  him  doubt  if  he  was  really  stand- 
ing before  Mr.  Sweeny's  house.  He  rang  the  bell  to  make 
sure.  Mr.  Sweeny  himself  answered  it.  He  seemed  glad 
to  see  his  fathful  servant,  helped  him  off  with  his  coat,  and 
ushered  him  into  the  front  room,  which  was  nice  and  warm. 

"You  have  a  light  in  this  room  now,"  said  Milton. 

"Yes,"  replied  Sweeny,  "ever  since  Miss  Jones  has  left 
town." 

Milton  was  startled  at  the  remark. 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

"We  don't  have  to  watch  her  house  no  more;  it  was 
the  only  loose  house  on  the  street.  You've  heard  about  it — 
hain't  you?" 

"I  knew  she  had  left  town;  but  I  didn't  know  why," 
said  Milton. 

"Well,  its  time  you're  findin'  out.  She  was  a  clever  one 
• — she  was,"  snickered  Sweeny. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  boy. 

"And  you  livin'  in  the  house  with  her,  and  never  knowin' 
it !    I  just  thought  so." 

Milton  had  once  suspected  Miss  Jones,  and  he  began  to 
wonder  now  if  that  suspicion  was  perhaps  correct. 

"Well,"  continued  the  landlord,  "she  run  a  sort  of  harem 
over  there.  It  was  different  from  the  old  Sultan's  harem — 
just  the  opposite.  She  was  the  Sultan  herself,  and  her 
students  were  her  husbands.    Do  you  get  me  ?" 

Milton  determined  to  listen  to  the  cry  of  the  vulture, 
horrible  and  vulgar  as  it  was. 

"They  went  into  her  room  on  scheduled  time — each  man 
had  his  night  in  the  week,"  added  Sweeny. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  225 

Milton  shuddered,  for  he  recalled  how  Mollis'  visit  on 
his  aunt  occurred  regularly  on  the  night  the  Mathematical 
Club  met,  and  how  he  had  seen  him  leaving  her  room  when 
he  was  returning  from  the  meetings  of  the  club.  He  could 
not  believe  that  Hollis  had  deliberately  lied  to  him  about 
his  family  relation  to  Miss  Jones,  but  the  next  remark  of 
the  landlord  removed  all  doubt. 

"What  was  your  night  with  Aunt  Clarabelle?"  asked 
Sweeny,  emphasizing  the  word  Aunt. 

Milton  colored. 

"Don't  blush,"  said  the  landlord.  "Every  one  in  the 
whole  town  knows  you're  a  virgin.  The  students  told  me 
you  was  as  slow  as  a  snail.  They  yelled  and  laughed  when 
they  heard  that  you  was  goin'  to  be  a  proctor  for  that  bunch 
you're  livin'  with  now.  They  said  the  faculty  might  just 
as  well  have  put  a  curlin'  poker  in  the  house  to  keep  them 
guys  straight.  You  didn't  care  to  believe  what  I  told  you 
about  this  university;  did  you?  I  suppose  you're  goin'  to 
get  another  degree  this  June — one  of  them  Ph.  D.'s  or  D. 
F.'s  or  something  like  that.  Keep  on;  you'll  learn  some- 
thing some  of  these  days." 

After  Milton  left  Mr.  Sweeny's  room,  he  glanced  at  the 
house  across  the  street.  It  was  in  that  house  that  he  had 
first  met  the  boy  who  was  going  to  help  him  reform  the 
university.  That  house  was  now  dark  and  deserted.  Hollis 
had  lied  to  him,  but  Milton  now  loved  the  boy  more  deeply 
than  ever,  and  in  him  he  still  saw  a  mighty  fellow-reformer. 
The  things  which  Hollis  had  done  would  make  him  a 
more  ardent  reformer  than  Milton  himself.  Hollis  had 
seen  far  more  of  and  had  come  far  closer  to  immorality 
than  Paul  Milton ;  he  had  been  swamped  in  the  very  quag- 
mire which  both  of  them  would  strive  to  exterminate. 
Was  it  not  their  combined  action  which  had  already  raided 
and  destroyed  one  of  these  quagmires — the  dark  building 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street?  Was  it  not  their  com- 
bined action  which  had  sent  Miss  Jones  out  of  the  com- 
munity? and  sent  her  out  voluntarily?  When  Milton 
realized  that  he  had  unconsciously  opened  this  woman's  eyes 


226  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

to  her  own  wrong,  he  knew  the  work  of  reform  had  already 
begun ! 

He  was  considerably  happier  when  he  returned  to  the 
fraternity  dormitory  than  when  he  had  left  it.  He  lighted 
his  desklamp;  the  picture  of  AUaine  Bennett  smiled  up  at 
him,  filling  him  with  encouragement  and  spurring  him  on 
to  continue  the  battle — the  fight  for  God  and  righteousness. 
It  was  with  some  reluctance  that  he  returned  the  inspiring 
photograph  to  the  desk  in  Hollis'  room.  Then  he  undressed, 
extinguished  his  lamp,  and  retired,  leaving  the  door  of  his 
room  open  as  usual. 

He  lay  there  for  some  time  awake,  waiting  for  Hollis 
to  return.  He  wanted  to  have  his  fellow-worker  at  his  side. 
The  partition  between  them  was  becoming  thinner  and  thin- 
ner ;  he  knew  that  it  must  eventually  give  way. 

He  was  almost  asleep  when  he  heard  a  student  stumbling 
up  the  stairs.  The  student  did  not  pass  Milton's  open  door ; 
he  stopped  before  it,  and  cried  out  into  the  darkness  with  a 
voice  that  quivered  with  misery  and  dejection: 

*Tt  is  you  who  have  ruined  me.  I  had  a  mistress — one 
whom  I  could  trust — one  who  took  great  care  not  to  pol- 
lute me.  You  took  her  away  from  me;  you  banished  her. 
I  heard  all  you  told  her;  I  was  standing  outside  your  door 
just  as  I  am  tonight.  You  sent  her  away  from  me,  and 
I  had  to  find  another,  because  I  couldn't  resist  it.  I  couldn't, 
I  tell  you;  I  tried,  but  I  couldn't.  And  I  found  one, — an 
ordinary  street  rat, — and  she  has  ruined  me,  poisoned  me, 
rotted  me.  This  is  what  you  have  brought  me  to.  You! 
You !    You !    Don't  look  at  me  or  speak  to  me  again." 

Milton  sprang  from  his  bed  and  ran  into  the  hall.  Hollis 
had  entered  his  own  room  and  closed  the  door  with  a  vio- 
lent slam.  Milton  tried  to  open  it,  but  it  was  bolted  from 
the  inside. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    MESSAGE    FROM 

They  were  sitting  together  at  the  Httle  table.  He  had 
just  arrived  that  morning  and  how  glad  and  proud  she  was 
to  Drepare  and  serve  his  breakfast! 

"It  feels  so  good  to  have  you  home  again,"  said  the  widow. 

*T  have  never  been  gladder  to  come  home — to  come  home 
to  you  and  to  Christmas.  The  real  meaning  of  Christmas 
is  wonderful ;  isn't  it,  Mother  ?" 

"Yes,  my  son,  but  tell  me — must  you  spend  your  whole 
vacation  working  on  your  thesis  again  ?" 

"That  thesis  is  finished." 

"Finished !"  exclaimed  the  widow. 

"Yes,  Mother." 

"Oh!  I  am  so  glad.  I  was  beginning  to  grow  a  wee 
bit  jealous  of  it,  Paul,  because  it  kept  you  away  from  me 
so  much." 

"It  has  kept  me  away  from  everybody.  It  was  a  hor- 
rible thesis — a  worthless  thesis !" 

"Paul!     No,  no;  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that." 

"But  I  do,"  replied  Paul.  "It  was  nothing  but  foolish, 
nonsensical  geometry — highly  theoretical — absolutely  im- 
practicable— there  was  not  one  word  in  it  to  benefit  man- 
kind— there  was  not  a  thought  in  it  that  would  cheer  a 
human  heart  or  save  a  human  soul.  It  was  all  bosh — noth- 
ing but  bosh  from  beginning  to  end." 

"Paul !  Paul !  What  has  come  over  you  ?  This  thesis 
is  going  to  bring  you  your  degree.  I  shall  see  my  son  march 
up  the  aisle  of  that  grand  old  chapel  among  all  those  great 
and  dignified  men  of  learning  in  their  gold-tasseled  caps 
and  colored  velvet  robes;  and  the  great  pipe  organ — the 


228  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

majestic  voice  of  God — will  pour  forth  its  song  of  praise 
from  a  hundred  golden  throats;  and  the  President  of  the 
University  will  read  your  name — and  perhaps  he  will  some 
day  place  one  of  those  purple  velvet  hoods  over  your  head." 

"Never  over  my  head,  Mother,"  said  Paul. 

"But,  Paul!  don't  you  understand  that  this  is  the  good 
and  great  purpose  for  which  you  have  left  me  these  many 
years  ?" 

"You  have  the  wrong  idea  of  greatness,  Mother.  True 
greatness  does  not  consist  of  such  superficial  ostentation. 
Our  commencement  processions  with  men  dressed  up  in  red, 
green,  blue  and  yellow  robes  trailing  along  after  a  brass 
band — why  it  is  almost  as  spectacular  as  a  circus  parade !" 

"Paul !    Paul !"  was  all  the  astonished  widow  could  say. 

"It  is  true.  Mother — that  is  mere  ostentation ;  not  great- 
ness. Instead  of  conferring  honorary  degrees  and  velvet 
hoods  upon  these  great  scientists  and  artists  and  lawyers 
and  poets,  the  university  would  do  better  to  reform  itself 
— to  Christianize  itself.  When  a  man  has  done  something 
which  pleases  God,  God  doesn't  decorate  him  like  a  clown 
in  a  circus.  All  of  this  is  done  to  give  the  university  pub- 
licity— not  to  reward  the  man's  work.  And  then  the  public 
thinks  what  a  wonderful  place  the  university  is — but  if  they 
only  knew !" 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Paul." 

"O  Mother,  I  have  never  told  you  anything,  but  I  have 
seen  and  heard  so  much  that  my  heart  is  sick.  I  am  dis- 
gusted with  universities  through  and  through.  I  am  going 
to  give  up  my  teaching,  my  geometry,  my  research,  every- 
thing ;  and  I  am  going  to  fight  for  improvement— fight  for 
humanity — fight  for  brotherhood — fight  for  God." 

"With  a  sword !"  exclaimed  the  widow — for  her  son  did 
appear  somewhat  terrible  just  then,  as  his  hand  grasped  the 
handle  of  the  table  knife  with  a  piece  of  red  jelly  trembling 
on  the  end  of  the  blade. 

"No ;  with  a  pen.  I  am  going  to  write  another  thesis. 
I  have  destroyed — I  have  burned  the  old  one — burned  it, 
Mother,  burned  it !" 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  229 

"Burned  it?"  gasped  the  widow. 

"Yes,  thank  God,"  said  Paul,  and  his  large  eyes  at  that 
moment  seemed  to  reflect  again  the  light  of  the  roaring 
flames  which  had  devoured  his  work  on  De  Soto*s  manu- 
script. 

"But  the  university  hasn't  given  you  all  these  free  schol- 
arships for  the  purpose  of  fighting  against  its  principles. 
The  Alumni  sent  you  there  to  help  the  university — to  im- 
prove it." 

"That  is  just  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  responded  Paul. 
"The  principles  of  the  university  are  wrong  and  inhumane. 
I  am  going  to  serve  it  by  bettering  them." 

"But,  Paul  dear,  it  is  not  only  at  the  university  that  such 
conditions  exist.  They  are  prevalent  the  world  over;  it  is 
the  principles  of  the  world  that  are  wrong  and  inhumane." 

"True,  Mother;  yet  who  but  educated  men  can  under- 
take to  reform  the  world,  and  how  will  the  world  ever  be- 
come reformed  as  long  as  students  themselves  are  immoral  ? 
Don't  you  see  clearly  that  there's  only  one  place  to  begin 
the  amelioration  of  the  universe?    The  university." 

He  had  convinced  her. 

"But  does  the  university  know  what  you  intend  to  do?" 
she  asked. 

"No;  only  you  and  I  know  it.  Don't  tell  any  one  else. 
Promise  me :  promise  me  you  won't.    I  wish  to  work  alone." 

Alice  promised,  but  immediately  added :  "You  can't  do 
it  alone,  Paul." 

"No ;  not  without  God." 

The  widow  was  silent. 

"It  is  God  who  is  going  to  help  me,"  said  Paul.  "He 
has  already  helped  me ;  He  has  shown  me  this  path,  and  it  is 
to  Him  only  that  I  must  look  for  further  guidance." 

"You  are  right,  my  boy — ^you  are  quite  right." 

And  Paul  arose  from  the  table  and  threw  his  arms  about 
his  mother's  neck. 

"You  won't  mind  it — will  you  Mother  ? — if  I  spend  most 
of  my  vacation  up  there,"  he  said,  pointing  overhead,  "up 
there  in  the  studio." 


230  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

"What  doing?"  asked  the  widow. 

"Receiving  messages — God's  messages,"  was  the  answer. 
The  mother  looked  at  her  son  curiously,  and  then  she 
seemed  to  understand  everything  and  nodded  with  a  smile. 
"The  good  and  great  purpose !"  she  murmured. 

When  Paul  went  up  to  the  studio  the  first  thing  his 
eyes  fell  upon  was  the  set  of  Emerson  with  which  "The 
Alumni"  had  presented  him.  He  had  never  looked  inside 
of  them,  because  his  geometry  had  kept  him  away.  He  took 
the  volume  of  Lectures  and  Biographical  Sketches  from  the 
shelf  and  opened  it,  by  chance,  to  the  very  page  on  which 
the  essay  on  Perpetual  Forces  ended.  His  eyes  became 
focused  on  a  sentence  in  the  middle  of  the  last  paragraph : 
The  soul  of  God  is  poured  into  the  world  through  the 
thoughts  of  men.  He  at  once  concluded  that  "God's  mes- 
sages" were  to  come  through  these  books,  and,  strangely 
enough,  from  that  moment  on,  he  read  during  the  entire 
Christmas  vacation,  beginning  early  each  morning  and  read- 
ing late  into  the  night.  It  seemed  he  could  not  leave  the 
books ;  he  clung  to  them  as  though  his  eyes  were  glued  to 
the  print.  It  seemed  he  was  reading  his  own  autobiography 
— his  past,  his  present,  and  even  his  future,  as  he  wished 
to  see  it.  Each  word  was  a  light — ^a  lamp,  which  illuminated 
the  path  over  which  he  had  already  trodden  as  well  as  the 
path  over  which  he  was  yet  to  pass. 

And  to  think  that  the  alumni  had  sent  them — The 
Alumni  of  his  Alma  Mater!  After  all,  they  wanted  him 
to  do  the  very  thing  which  he  himself  had  decided  to  do. 
Then  they  did  see  something  more  noble  than  football! 
Tom  Kuhler  had  received  their  applause — but  what  did  that 
wild  exotic  screaming  amount  to?  How  could  the  boister- 
ous cheering  of  that  infuriated  mob  ever  incite  a  man  to 
accomplish  something  worth  while?  There  was  no  true 
reverence  in  that  mad  display  of  animalism.  It  was  the 
unseen  and  unheard  message  which  the  alumni  were  voic- 
ing in  these  books — only  this  could  lead  a  hero  to  real 
greatness. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  231 

At  the  end  of  the  vacation,  Milton  had  completed  read- 
ing most  of  the  volumes,  underlining  and  double-underlin- 
ing something  on  every  page — sentences  which  were  to  help 
him.  He  had  come  home  without  a  single  book  in  his  trunk, 
but  when  he  returned  to  the  university  he  packed  the  entire 
set  among  his  clothing,  wrapping  them  in  his  shirts  and 
linens  to  prevent  them  from  becoming  bruised  and  torn  dur- 
ing transportation.  He  told  his  mother  he  was  taking  back 
a  trunkful  of  friends — not  friends  who  conversed  on  dry 
mathematical  topics,  but  friends  who  spoke  beautifully  and 
forcibly — friends  with  a  love  for  humanity.  He  could 
never  be  lonely  again  with  such  as  these. 

Milton  was  unaware  of  the  fact  that,  while  he  was  read- 
ing at  night,  there  was  often  a  girl  gazing  through  the 
studio  window  from  the  little  stone  balcony  at  Willow 
Lodge.  Her  engagement  to  Mr.  Harold  Hollis  was  an- 
nounced publicly  at  a  monstrous  reception  which  was  held 
shortly  after  Milton  returned  to  the  university.  It  was 
almost  as  happy  and  as  merry  a  Christmas  for  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Bennett  as  it  was  for  Paul  Milton  in  his  studio.  But  it  was 
a  sad  Christmas  for  the  engaged  couple :  they  had  not  even 
spent  that  day  together.  Harold  had  sent  Allaine  a  letter 
in  which  he  stated  that  his  absence  would  be  due  to  the  fact 
that  his  father  was  soon  to  be  married  again,  and  that  he — 
Harold — felt  that  they  should  spend  the  last  Christmas  in 
their  old  home  together,  for  it  would  never  seem  like  home 
again.  But  he  went  on  to  say  that  he  was  looking  forward 
to  the  next  Christmas,  when  he  and  Allaine  would  be  living 
happily  in  a  little  home  all  of  their  own. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHAT   MILTON   UNDERLINED  IN   EMERSON 

Now  and  then  a  man  exquisitely  made  can  live  alone,  and 
must ;  but  coop  up  most  men  and  you  undo  them.* 

But  one  condition  is  essential  to  the  social  education  of 
man,  namely,  morality/ 

Let  him  look  on  opposition  as  opportunity/ 

It  is  what  is  done  and  suffered  in  the  house,  in  the  con- 
stitution, in  the  temperament,  in  the  personal  history,  that 
has  the  profoundest  interest  for  us.** 

Genius  and  virtue,  like  diamonds,  are  best  plain-set — set 
in  lead,  set  in  poverty.** 

The  great  make  us  feel,  first  of  all,  the  indifference  of 
circumstances.  They  call  into  activity  the  higher  percep- 
tions and  subdue  the  low  habits  of  comfort  and  luxury ;  but 
the  higher  perceptions  find  their  objects  everywhere;  only 
the  low  habits  need  palaces  and  banquets.** 

It  is  the  iron  band  of  poverty,  of  necessity,  of  austerity, 
which,  excluding  them  from  the  sensual  enjoyments  which 
make  other  boys  too  early  old,  has  directed  their  activity  in 
safe  and  right  channels,  and  made  them,  despite  themselves, 
reverers  of  the  grand,  the  beautiful  and  the  good.** 

For  we  do  not  listen  with  the  best  regard  to  the  verses 
of  a  man  who  is  only  a  poet,  nor  to  his  problems  if  he  is  only 
an  algebraist;  but  if  a  man  is  at  once  acquainted  with  the 
geometrical  foundations  of  things  and  with  their  festal 
splendor,  his  poetry  is  exact  and  his  arithmetic  musical." " 

There  can  be  no  greatness  without  abandonment."" 

No,  what  has  been  best  done  in  the  world, — ^the  works  of 

•Society  and  Solitude.  "Civilization.  fEloquence. 

••Domestic  Life.  °  ° Works  and  Days. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  233 

genius, — cost  nothing.  There  is  no  painful  effort,  but  it  is 
the  spontaneous  flowing  of  thought/" 

I  have  known  persons  of  rare  ability  who  were  heavy 
company  to  good  social  men  who  knew  well  enough  how  to 
draw  out  others  of  retiring  habit;  and,  moreover,  were 
heavy  to  intellectual  men  who  ought  to  have  known  them. 
And  does  it  never  occur  that  we  perhaps  live  with  people  too 
superior  to  be  seen, — as  there  are  musical  notes  too  high  for 
the  scale  of  most  ears  ?* 

A  scholar  does  not  wish  to  be  always  pumping  his  brains ; 
he  wants  gossips.* 

The  third  excellence  is  courage,  the  perfect  will,  which 
no  terrors  can  shake,  which  is  attracted  by  frowns  or  threats 
or  hostile  armies,  nay,  needs  these  to  awake  and  fan  its 
reserved  energies  into  a  pure  flame,  and  is  never  quite  itself 
until  the  hazard  is  extreme ;  then  it  is  serene  and  fertile,  and 
all  its  powers  play  well." 

'Tis  said  courage  is  common,  but  the  immense  esteem  in 
which  it  is  held  proves  it  to  be  rare.  Animal  resistance,  the 
instinct  of  the  male  animal  when  cornered,  is  no  doubt  com- 
mon; but  the  pure  article,  courage  with  eyes,  courage  with 
conduct,  self-possession  at  the  cannon's  mouth,  cheerfulness 
in  lonely  adherence  to  the  right,  is  the  endowment  of  ele- 
vated characters." 

They  can  conquer  who  believe  they  can." 

Courage  is  directness, — the  instant  performing  of  that 
which  he  ought." 

Morphy  played  a  daring  game  in  chess :  the  daring  was 
only  an  illusion  of  the  spectator,  for  the  player  sees  his  move 
to  be  well  fortified  and  safe." 

True  courage  is  never  ostentatious." 

There  is  a  persuasion  in  the  soul  of  man  that  he  is  here 
for  cause,  that  he  was  put  down  in  this  place  by  the  Creator 
to  do  the  work  for  which  he  inspires  him,  that  thus  he  is  an 
overmatch  for  all  antagonists  that  could  combine  against 
him." 

Sacred  courage  indicates  that  a  man  loves  an  idea  better 
" 'Work  and  Days.  •Clubs.  "Courage. 


234  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

than  all  things  in  the  world ;  that  he  is  aiming  neither  at  pelf 
nor  comfort,  but  will  venture  all  to  put  in  act  the  invisible 
thought  in  his  mind.' 

Wolf,  snake  and  crocodile  are  not  inharmonious  in 
Nature,  but  are  made  useful  as  checks,  scavengers  and 
pioneers ;  and  we  must  have  a  scope  as  large  as  Nature's  to 
deal  with  beast-like  men,  detect  what  scullion  function  is 
assigned  them,  and  foresee  in  the  secular  melioration  of  the 
planet  how  these  will  become  unnecessary  and  will  die  out/ 

If  you  accept  your  thoughts  as  inspirations  from  the 
Supreme  Intelligence,  obey  them  when  they  prescribe  diffi- 
cult duties,  because  they  come  only  so  long  as  they  are  used ; 
or,  if  your  skepticism  reaches  to  the  last  verge,  and  you  have 
no  confidence  in  any  foreign  mind,  then  be  brave,  because 
there  is  one  good  opinion  which  must  always  be  of  conse- 
quence to  you,  namely,  your  own/ 

Self-trust  is  the  first  secret  of  success,  the  belief  that  if 
you  are  here  the  authorities  of  the  universe  put  you  here, 
and  for  cause,  or  with  some  task  strictly  appointed  you  in 
your  constitution,  and  so  long  as  you  work  at  that  you  are 
well  and  successful.  It  by  no  means  consists  in  rushing  pre- 
maturely to  a  showy  feat  that  shall  catch  the  eye  and  satisfy 
spectators.    It  is  enough  if  you  work  in  the  right  direction. t 

Cannot  we  please  ourselves  with  performing  our  work, 
or  gaining  truth  and  power,  without  being  praised  for  it  V 

I  pronounce  that  young  man  happy  who  is  content  with 
having  acquired  the  skill  which  he  had  aimed  at,  and  waits 
willingly  when  the  occasion  of  making  it  appreciated  shall 
arrive,  knowing  well  that  it  will  not  loiter."*" 

To  awake  in  man  and  to  raise  the  sense  of  worth,  to  edu- 
cate his  feeling  and  judgment  so  that  he  shall  scorn  himself 
for  a  bad  action,  that  is  the  only  aim."^ 

There  is  the  like  tempest  in  every  good  head  in  which 
some  great  benefit  for  the  world  is  planted.* 

All  the  functions  of  human  duty  irritate  and  lash  him 
forward,  bemoaning  and  chiding,  until  they  are  performed.* 

Our  instincts  drove  us  to  hive  innumerable  experiences, 

"Courage.  fSuccess.  JOld  Age. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  «        235 

that  are  yet  of  no  visible  value,  and  which  we  may  keep  for 
twice  seven  years  before  they  shall  be  wanted.* 

The  day  comes  when  the  hidden  author  of  our  story  is 
found ;  when  the  brave  speech  returns  straight  to  the  hero 
who  said  it;  when  the  admirable  verse  finds  the  poet  to 
whom  it  belongs ;  and  best  of  all,  when  the  lonely  thought, 
which  seemed  so  wise,  yet  half-wise,  half-thought,  because 
it  cast  no  light  abroad,  is  suddenly  matched  in  our  mind  by 
its  twin,  by  its  sequence,  or  next  related  analogy,  which 
gives  it  instantly  radiating  power,  and  justifies  the  super- 
stitious instinct  with  which  we  have  hoarded  it.* 

God  himself  does  not  speak  prose,  but  communicates 
with  us  by  hints,  omens,  inference  and  dark  resemblances  in 
objects  lying  all  around  us.* 

Every  writer  is  a  skater,  and  must  go  partly  where  he 
would,  and  partly  where  the  skates  carry  him.* 

There  is  no  choice  of  words  for  him  who  clearly  sees  the 
truth.    That  provides  him  with  the  best  word.* 

If  your  subject  do  not  appear  to  you  the  flower,  of  the 
world  at  this  moment,  you  have  not  rightly  chosen  it.* 

In  dreams  we  are  true  poets;  we  create  the  persons  of 
the  drama;  we  give  them  appropriate  figures,  faces,  cos- 
tume; they  are  perfect  in  their  organs,  attitude,  manners: 
moreover,  they  speak  after  their  own  characters,  not  ours ; — 
they  speak  to  us,  and  we  listen  with  surprise  to  what  they 
say.* 

As  the  imagination  is  not  a  talent  of  some  men  but  is  the 
health  of  every  man,  so  also  is  this  joy  of  musical  expres- 
sion. I  know  the  pride  of  mathematicians  and  materialists, 
but  they  cannot  conceal  from  me  their  capital  want.* 

I  honor  the  geometer,  but  he  has  before  him  higher 
power  and  happiness  than  he  knows.* 

In  proportion  as  a  man's  life  comes  into  union  with 
truth,  his  thoughts  approach  to  a  parallelism  with  the  cur- 
rents of  natural  laws,  so  that  he  easily  expresses  his  mean- 
ing by  natural  symbols,  or  uses  the  ecstatic  or  poetic  speech. 
...    In  proportion  as  his  life  departs  from  this  simplicity, 

tOld  Age.  *Poetry  and  Imagination, 


236  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

he  uses  circumlocution, — by  many  words  hoping  to  suggest 
what  he  cannot  say.* 

He  whose  word  or  deed  you  cannot  predict,  who  answers 
you  without  any  supplication  in  his  eye,  who  draws  his  de- 
termination from  within,  and  draws  it  instantly, — that  man 
rules/ 

Whilst  one  man  by  his  manners  pins  me  to  the  wall,  with 
another  I  walk  among  the  stars/ 

A  few  times  in  my  life  it  has  happened  to  me  to  meet 
persons  of  so  good  a  nature  and  so  good  breeding  that  every 
topic  was  open  and  discussed  without  possibility  of  offence, 
— persons  who  could  not  be  shocked/ 

Of  course  those  people,  and  no  others,  interest  us,  who 
believe  in  their  thought,  who  are  absorbed,  if  you  please  to 
say  so,  in  their  own  dream/ 

A  determined  man,  by  his  very  attitude  and  the  tone  of 
his  voice,  puts  a  stop  to  defeat,  and  begins  to  conquer/ 

A  great  man  quotes  bravely,  and  will  not  draw  on  his 
invention  when  his  memory  serves  him  with  a  word  as 
good.* 

Whoever  expresses  to  us  a  just  thought  makes  ridiculous 
the  pains  of  the  critic  who  should  tell  him  where  such  a 
word  had  been  said  before/ 

We  are  as  much  informed  of  a  writer's  genius  by  what 
he  selects  as  by  what  he  originates/ 

Our  best  thought  came  from  others.  We  heard  in  their 
words  a  deeper  sense  than  the  speakers  put  into  them,  and 
could  express  ourselves  in  other  people^s  phrases  to  finer 
purpose  than  they  knew.* 

And  what  is  originaHty?  It  is  being,  being  one's  self, 
and  reporting  accurately  what  we  see  and  are.* 

Every  book  is  written  with  a  constant  secret  reference  to 
a  few  intelligent  persons  whom  the  writer  believes  to  exist 
in  the  million.** 

And  the  first  measure  of  a  mind  is  its  centrality,  its  ca- 
pacity of  truth,  and  its  adhesion  to  it.** 

•Poetry  and  Imagination.  'Social  Aims.  fResources. 

^Quotation  and  Originality.  **Progress  of  Culture. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  237 

The  foundation  of  culture,  as  of  character,  is  at  last  the 
moral  sentiment.** 

Great  men  are  they  who  see  that  spiritual  is  stronger 
than  any  material  force,  that  thoughts  rule  the  world.** 

The  great  heart  will  no  more  complain  of  the  obstruc- 
tions that  make  success  hard,  than  of  the  iron  walls  of  the 
gun  which  hinder  the  shot  from  scattering.  It  was  walled 
round  with  iron  tube  with  that  purpose,  to  give  it  irresistible 
force  in  one  direction.** 

It  is  the  ardor  of  the  assailant  that  makes  the  vigor  of 
the  defender.** 

I  believe  that  nothing  great  and  lasting  can  be  done  ex- 
cept by  inspiration,  by  leaning  on  the  secret  augury.* 

A  rush  of  thoughts  is  the  only  conceivable  prosperity 
that  can  come  to  us." 

What  is  a  man  good  for  without  enthusiasm?  and  what 
is  enthusiasm  but  the  daring  of  ruin  for  its  object?' 

"No  great  genius  was  ever  without  some  mixture  of 
madness,  nor  can  anything  grand  or  superior  to  the  voice 
of  common  mortals  be  spoken  except  by  the  agitated  soul."* 
(Aristotle). 

When  the  spirit  chooses  you  for  its  scribe  to  publish 
some  commandment,  it  makes  you  odious  to  men  and  men 
odious  to  you,  and  you  shall  accept  that  loathsomeness  with 
joy.* 

There  are  some  hints  toward  what  is  in  all  education  a 
chief  necessity, — ^the  right  government,  or,  shall  I  say?  the 
right  obedience  to  the  powers  of  the  human  soul.  Itself  is 
the  dictator;  the  mind  itself  the  awful  oracle.  All  our 
power,  all  our  happiness  consists  in  our  reception  of  its 
hints,  which  ever  become  clearer  and  grander  as  they  are 
obeyed.* 

Self-respect  is  the  early  form  in  which  greatness  appears. 
The  man  in  the  tavern  maintains  his  opinion,  though  the 
whole  crowd  takes  the  other  side;  we  are  at  once  drawn 
to  him."^" 

They  may  well  fear  Fate  who  have  any  infirmity  of  habit 

••Progress  of  Culture.  "Inspiration.  fGreatness. 


238  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

or  aim ;  but  he  who  rests  on  what  he  is,  has  a  destiny  above 
destiny,  and  can  make  mouths  at  Fortune. "*■ 

There  is  somewhat  in  the  true  scholar  which  he  cannot 
be  laughed  out  of,  nor  be  terrified  or  bought  off  from.  Stick 
to  your  own ;  don't  inculpate  yourself  in  the  local,  social  or 
national  crime,  but  follow  the  path  your  genius  traces  like 
the  galaxy  of  heaven  for  you  to  walk  in."^ 

Young  men  think  that  the  manly  character  requires  that 
they  should  go  to  California,  or  to  India,  or  into  the  army. 
When  they  have  learned  that  the  parlor  and  the  college  and 
the  counting-room  demand  as  much  courage  as  the  sea  or 
the  camp,  they  will  be  willing  to  consult  their  own  strength 
and  education  in  their  choice  of  place."'' 

Whilst  he  shares  with  all  mankind  the  gift  of  reason  and 
the  moral  sentiment,  there  is  a  teaching  for  him  from  within 
which  is  leading  him  in  a  new  path,  and,  the  more  it  is 
trusted,  separates  and  signalizes  him,  while  it  makes  him 
more  important  and  necessary  to  society.  We  call  this  spe- 
cialty the  bias  of  each  individual.  And  none  of  us  will  ever 
accomplish  anything  excellent  or  commanding  except  when 
he  listens  to  this  whisper  which  is  heard  by  him  alone."*" 

The  necessity  of  resting  on  the  real,  of  speaking  your 
private  thought  and  experience,  few  young  men  apprehend."'" 

Indeed  I  think  it  an  essential  caution  to  young  writers, 
that  they  shall  not  in  their  discourse  leave  out  the  one  thing 
which  the  discourse  was  written  to  say.  Let  that  belief 
which  you  hold  alone  have  free  course.^ 

You  are  rightly  fond  of  certain  books  or  men  that  you 
have  found  to  excite  your  reverence  and  emulation.  But 
none  of  these  can  compare  with  the  greatness  of  that  counsel 
which  is  open  to  you  in  happy  solitude. "*" 

The  rule  of  the  orator  begins  .  .  .  when  the  thought 
which  he  stands  for  gives  its  own  authority  to  him,  adds  to 
him  a  grander  personality,  gives  him  valor,  breadth  and 
new  intellectual  power,  so  that  not  he,  but  mankind,  seems 
to  speak  through  his  lips."!" 

The  day  will  come  when  no  badge,  uniform  or  medal 

tGreatness. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  239 

will  be  worn;  when  the  eye,  which  carries  in  it  planetary- 
influences  from  all  the  stars,  will  indicate  rank  fast  enough 
by  exerting  power.  ■*■ 

The  great  man  loves  the  conversation  of  the  book  that 
convicts  him,  not  that  which  soothes  or  flatters  him.t 

Whilst  degrees  of  intellect  interest  only  classes  of  men 
who  pursue  the  same  studies,  as  chemists  or  astronomers, 
mathematicians  or  linguists,  and  have  no  attraction  for  the 
crowd,  there  are  always  men  who  have  a  more  catholic 
genius,  are  really  great  as  men,  and  inspire  universal  enthu- 
siasm. A  great  style  of  hero  draws  equally  all  classes,  all  the 
extremes  of  society,  till  we  say  the  very  dogs  believe  in  him."^ 

With  self-respect  then  there  must  be  in  the  aspirant  the 
strong  fellow  feeling,  the  humanity,  which  makes  men  of  all 
classes  warm  to  him  as  their  leader  and  representative. ■'' 

Don't  waste  life  in  doubts  and  fears ;  spend  yourself  on 
the  work  before  you,  well  assured  that  the  right  perform- 
ance of  this  hour's  duties  will  be  the  best  preparation  for 
the  hours  or  ages  that  follow  it.* 

There  is  a  profound  melancholy  at  the  base  of  men  of 
active  and  powerful  talent,  seldom  suspected.* 

All  I  have  seen  teaches  me  to  trust  the  Creator  for  all  I 
have  not  seen.* 

The  one  doctrine  in  which  all  religions  agree  is  that  new 
light  is  added  to  the  mind  in  proportion  as  it  uses  what 
it  has.* 

Ignorant  people  confound  reverence  for  the  intuitions 
with  egotism.* 

The  moral  sentiment  measures  itself  by  sacrifice.  It 
risks  or  ruins  property,  health,  life  itself,  without  hesitation, 
for  its  thoughts,  and  all  men  justify  the  man  by  their  praise 
for  this  act.* 

The  revelation  that  is  true  is  written  on  the  palms  of  the 
hands,  the  thought  of  our  mind,  the  desire  of  our  heart, 
or  nowhere.* 

What  but  thought  deepens  life,  and  makes  us  better  than 
cow  or  cat.* 

tGreatness.  Jlmmortality.  *Powers  and  Laws  of  Thought. 


240  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

To  be  isolated  is  to  be  sick,  and  in  so  far,  dead.  The  life 
of  the  All  must  stream  through  us  to  make  the  man  and  the 
moment  great.* 

Every  new  impression  on  the  mind  is  not  to  be  derided, 
but  is  to  be  accounted  for,  and,  until  accounted  for,  regis- 
tered as  an  indisputable  addition  to  our  catalogue  of  natural 
facts.* 

Our  thoughts  at  first  possess  us.  Later,  if  we  have  good 
heads,  we  come  to  possess  them.* 

All  men  know  the  truth,  but  what  of  that?  It  is  rare  to 
find  one  who  knows  how  to  speak  it.* 

Every  man  has  his  theory,  true,  but  ridiculously  over- 
stated. We  are  forced  to  treat  a  great  part  of  mankind  as 
if  they  were  a  little  deranged.* 

Man  was  made  for  conflict,  not  for  rest.* 

The  secret  of  power  is  delight  in  one's  work.° 

Him  we  account  the  fortunate  man  whose  determination 
to  his  aim  is  sufficiently  strong  to  leave  him  no  doubt.' 

I  think  the  reason  why  men  fail  in  their  conflicts  is  be- 
cause they  wear  other  armor  than  their  own.  Each  must 
have  all,  but  by  no  means  need  he  have  it  in  your  form.' 

Follow  this  leading,  nor  ask  too  curiously  whither.  To 
follow  is  thy  part.  And  what  if  it  lead,  as  men  say,  to  an 
excess,  to  partiality,  to  individualism?    Follow  it  still.* 

For  either  science  and  literature  is  a  hypocricy,  or  it  is 
not.  If  it  be,  then  resign  your  charter  to  the  Legislature, 
turn  your  college  into  barracks  and  warehouses,  and  divert 
the  funds  of  your  founders  into  the  stock  of  a  rope-walk  or 
a  candle-factory,  a  tan-yard  or  some  other  undoubted  con- 
veniency  for  the  surrounding  population.  But  if  the  intel- 
lectual interest  be,  as  I  hold,  no  hypocricy,  but  the  only 
reality, — then  it  behooves  us  to  enthrone  it,  obey  it;  and 
give  it  possession  of  us  and  ours ;  to  give,  among  other  pos- 
sessions, the  college  into  its  hand,  casting  down  every  idol, 
every  pretender,  every  hoary  lie,  every  dignified  blunder 
that  has  crept  into  its  administration. t 

♦Powers  and  Laws  of  Thought.  "Instinct  and  Inspiration. 

tThe  Celebration  of  Intellect. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  241 

These  are  giddy  times,  and,  you  say,  the  college  will  be 
deserted.  No,  never  was  it  so  much  needed.  But  I  say, 
those  were  giddy  times  which  went  before  these,  and  the 
new  times  are  the  times  of  arraignment,  times  of  trial  and 
times  of  judgment.  'T  is  because  the  college  was  false  to  its 
trust,  because  the  scholars  did  not  learn  and  teach,  because 
they  were  traders  and  left  their  altars  and  libraries  and 
worship  of  truth  and  played  the  sycophant  to  presidents  and 
generals  and  members  of  Congress,  and  gave  degrees  and 
literary  and  social  honors  to  those  whom  they  ought  to  have 
rebuked  and  exposed,  incurring  the  contempt  of  those  whom 
they  ought  to  have  put  in  fear ;  then  the  college  is  suicidal ; 
ceases  to  be  a  school;  power  oozes  out  of  it  just  as  fast  as 
truth  does ;  and  instead  of  overawing  the  strong,  and  uphold- 
ing the  good,  it  is  a  hospital  for  decayed  tutors. ■*" 

Never  was  pure  valor — and  almost  I  might  say,  never 
pure  ability — shown  in  a  bad  cause."'' 

Society  is  always  taken  by  surprise  at  any  new  example 
of  common  sense  and  of  simple  justice,  as  at  a  wonderful 
discovery.^ 

The  man  who  knows  any  truth  not  yet  discerned  by 
other  men  is  master  of  all  other  men,  so  far  as  that  truth  and 
its  wide  relations  are  concerned. ■*■ 

Nay,  in  the  class  called  intellectual  the  men  are  no  better 
than  the  uninstructed.  They  use  their  wit  and  learning  in 
the  service  of  the  Devil.  There  are  bad  looks  and  false 
teachers  and  corrupt  judges ;  and  in  the  institutions  of  edu- 
cation a  want  of  faith  in  their  own  cause. "^ 

A  certain  hospitality  and  jealousy  of  genius  grows  up  in 
the  masters  of  routine,  and  unless,  by  rare  good  fortune,  the 
professor  has  a  generous  sympathy  with  genius  and  takes 
care  to  interpose  a  certain  relief  and  cherishing  and  rever- 
ence for  the  wild  poet  and  dawning  philosopher  he  has  de- 
tected in  his  classes,  that  will  happen  which  has  happened 
so  often,  that  the  best  scholar,  he  for  whom  colleges  exist, 
finds  himself  a  stranger  and  an  orphan  therein. t 

Sit  low  and  wait  long.t 

tThe  Celebration  of  Intellect. 


242  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

He  has  seen  but  half  the  universe  who  has  never  been 
shown  the  house  of  Pain.* 

Neither  the  caucus,  nor  the  newspaper,  nor  the  Congress, 
nor  the  mob,  nor  the  guillotine,  nor  fire,  nor  all  together,  can 
avail  to  outlaw,  cut  out,  burn  or  destroy  the  offence  of 
superiority  in  persons.* 

Men  of  aim  must  lead  the  aimless.* 

The  man's  associations,  fortunes,  love,  hatred,  residence, 
rank,  the  books  he  will  buy,  the  roads  he  will  traverse  are 
predetermined  in  his  organism.  Men  will  need  him,  and  he 
is  rich  and  eminent  by  nature.  That  man  cannot  be  too  late 
or  too  early.  Let  him  not  hurry  or  hesitate.  Though 
millions  are  already  arrived,  his  seat  is  reserved.* 

There  are  men  who  may  dare  much  and  will  be  justified 
in  their  daring,  but  it  is  because  they  know  they  are  in  their 
place.    As  long  as  I  am  in  my  place,  I  am  safe.* 

What  is  it  that  makes  the  true  knight?  Loyalty  to  his 
thought.* 

For  a  soul  on  which  elevated  duties  are  laid  will  so 
realize  its  special  and  lofty  duties  as  not  to  be  in  danger  of 
assuming  through  a  low  generosity  those  which  do  not 
belong  to  it.* 

The  noble  mind  is  here  to  teach  us  that  failure  is  a  part 
of  success.  Prosperity  and  pound-cake  are  for  very  young 
gentlemen,  whom  such  things  content ;  but  a  hero's,  a  man's 
success  is  made  up  of  failures,  because  he  experiments  and 
ventures  every  day,  and  "the  more  falls  he  gets,  moves 
faster  on ;"  defeated  all  the  time  and  yet  to  victory  born.* 

Give  up,  once  for  all,  the  hope  of  approbation  from  the 
people  in  the  street,  if  you  are  pursuing  great  ends.  How 
can  they  guess  your  designs  ?* 

By  experiment,  by  original  studies,  by  secret  obedience, 
he  has  made  a  place  for  himself  in  the  world ;  stands  there 
a  real,  substantial,  unprecedented  person,  and  when  the 
great  come  by,  as  always  there  are  angels  walking  in  the 
earth,  they  know  him  at  sight.* 

The  distinction  of  a  royal  nature  is  a  great  heart.* 

tThe  Tragic.  ♦Aristocracy. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  243 

For  to  every  gentleman  grave  and  dangerous  duties  are 
proposed.  Justice  always  wants  champions.  The  world 
waits  for  him  as  its  defender,  for  he  will  find  in  the  well- 
dressed  crowd,  yes,  in  the  civility  of  whole  nations,  vulgarity 
of  sentiment.* 

You  must,  for  wisdom,  for  sanity,  have  some  access  to 
the  mind  and  heart  of  the  common  humanity.  The  exclu- 
sive excludes  himself.* 

It  is  the  interest  of  society  that  good  men  should  govern, 
and  there  is  always  a  tendency  so  to  place  them.* 

Call  it  man  of  honor,  or  call  it  Man,  the  American  who 
would  serve  his  country  must  learn  the  beauty  and  honor  of 
perseverance,  he  must  reinforce  himself  by  the  power  of 
character,  and  revisit  the  margin  of  that  well  from  which 
his  fathers  drew  waters  of  life  and  enthusiasm,  the  fountain 
I  mean  of  the  moral  sentiments,  the  parent  fountain  from 
which  this  goodly  Universe  flows  as  a  wave.* 

Never  was  any  man  too  strong  for  his  proper  work." 

No  force  but  is  his  force.  He  does  not  possess  them,  he 
is  a  pipe  through  which  their  currents  flow.  .  .  .  Look  at 
him;  you  can  give  no  guess  at  what  power  is  in  him.  It 
never  appears  directly,  but  follow  him  and  see  his  effects, 
his  productions." 

What  he  chiefly  brings,  all  he  brings,  is  not  his  land  or 
his  money  or  body's  strength,  but  his  thoughts,  his  way  of 
classifying  and  seeing  things,  his  method." 

The  art  of  compelling  belief,  the  art  of  making  peoples* 
hearts  dance  to  his  pipe!  And  not  less,  method,  patience, 
self-trust,  perseverance,  love,  desire  of  knowledge,  the  pas- 
sion for  truth.  These  are  the  angels  that  take  us  by  the 
hand,  these  our  immortal,  invulnerable  guardians." 

But  if  you  wish  to  avail  yourself  of  their  might,  and  in 
like  manner  if  you  wish  the  force  of  the  intellect,  the  force 
of  the  will,  you  must  take  their  divine  direction,  not  they 
yours.    Obedience  alone  gives  the  right  to  command." 

The  world  belongs  to  the  energetical." 

Things  are  saturated  with  the  moral  law.     There  is  no 

•Aristocracy.  "Perpetual  Forces. 


244  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

escape  from  it.  Violets  and  grass  preach  it ;  rain  and  snow, 
wind  and  tides,  every  change,  every  cause  in  Nature  is 
nothing  but  a  disguised  missionary." 

One  thing  is  plain ;  a  certain  personal  virtue  is  essential 
to  freedom ;  and  it  begins  to  be  doubtful  whether  our  cor- 
ruption in  this  country  has  not  gone  a  little  over  the  mark 
of  safety,  so  that  when  canvassed  we  shall  be  found  to  be 
made  up  of  a  majority  of  reckless  self-seekers.  The  divine 
knowledge  has  ebbed  out  of  us  and  we  do  not  know  enough 
to  be  free." 

The  illusion  that  strikes  me  as  the  masterpiece  in  that 
ring  of  illusions  which  our  life  is,  is  the  timidity  with  which 
we  assert  our  moral  sentiment.  We  are  made  of  it,  the  world 
is  built  by  it,  things  endure  as  they  share  it ;  all  beauty,  all 
health,  all  intelligence  exist  by  it ;  yet  we  shrink  to  speak  of 
it  or  to  range  ourselves  by  its  side.  Nay,  we  presume 
strength  of  him  or  them  who  deny  it.  Cities  go  against  it ; 
the  college  goes  against  it." 

Every  new  asserter  of  the  right  surprises  us,  like  a  man 
joining  the  church,  and  we  hardly  dare  believe  he  is  in 
earnest.' 

The  soul  of  God  is  poured  into  the  world  through  the 
thoughts  of  men." 

He  that  speaks  the  truth  executes  no  private  function  of 
an  individual  will,  but  the  world  utters  a  sound  by  his  lips. 
He  who  doth  a  just  action  seeth  therein  nothing  of  his  own, 
but  an  inconceivable  nobleness  attaches  to  it,  because  it  is  a 
dictate  of  the  general  mind.+ 

Men  appear  from  time  to  time  who  receive  with  more 
purity  and  fulness  these  high  communications. ■*■ 

When  a  man  is  born  with  a  profound  moral  sentiment, 
preferring  truth,  justice  and  the  serving  of  all  men  to  any 
honors  or  any  gain,  men  readily  feel  the  superiority.  They 
who  deal  with  him  are  elevated  with  joy  and  hope;  he  lights 
up  the  house  or  the  landscape  in  which  he  stands.  His 
actions  are  poetic  and  miraculous  in  their  eyes."*" 

To  a  well-principled  man  existence  is  victory. "*■ 

"Perpetual  Forces.  tCharacter. 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  245 

Duty  grows  everywhere,  like  children,  like  grass;  we 
need  not  go  to  Europe  or  to  Asia  to  learn  it.^ 

Men  may  well  come  together  to  kindle  each  other  to  vir- 
tuous living."'' 

Victory  over  things  is  the  office  of  man.  Of  course,  until 
it  is  accomplished,  it  is  the  war  and  insult  of  things  over 
him.* 

A  man  is  a  little  thing  whilst  he  works  by  and  for  him- 
self, but,  when  he  gives  voice  to  the  rules  of  love  and  justice, 
is  godlike,  his  word  is  current  in  all  countries ;  and  all  men, 
though  his  enemies,  are  made  his  friends  and  obey  it  as  their 
own.* 

Nature,  when  she  sends  a  new  mind  into  the  world,  fills 
it  beforehand  with  a  desire  for  that  which  she  wishes  it  to 
know  and  do.* 

And  jealous  provision  seems  to  have  been  made  in  his 
constitution  that  you  shall  not  invade  and  contaminate  him 
with  the  worn  weeds  of  your  language  and  opinions.* 

Heaven  often  protects  valuable  souls  charged  with  great 
secrets,  great  ideas,  by  long  shutting  them  up  with  their  own 
thoughts.* 

There  is  the  perpetual  romance  of  new  life,  the  invasion 
of  God  into  the  old  dead  world,  when  he  sends  into  quiet 
houses  a  young  soul  with  a  thought  which  is  not  met,  looking 
for  something  which  is  not  there,  but  which  ought  to  be 
there.* 

Happy  this  child  with  a  bias,  with  a  thought  which  en- 
trances him,  leads  him,  now  into  deserts,  now  into  cities,  the 
fool  of  an  idea.  Let  him  follow  it  in  good  and  in  evil  report, 
in  good  or  bad  company ;  it  will  justify  itself ;  it  will  lead 
him  at  last  into  the  illustrious  society  of  the  lovers  of  truth.* 

Is  it  not  manifest  that  our  academic  institutions  should 
have  a  wider  scope ;  that  they  should  not  be  timid  and  keep 
the  ruts  of  the  last  generation,  but  that  wise  men  thinking 
for  themselves  and  heartily  seeking  the  good  of  mankind, 
and  counting  the  cost  of  innovation,  should  dare  to  arouse 
the  young  to  a  just  and  heroic  Hfe;  that  the  moral  nature 

tCharacter.  JEducatlon. 


246  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

should  be  addressed  in  the  school-room,  and  children  should 
be  treated  as  the  high-born  candidates  of  truth  and  virtue?^ 

For  the  luminous  object  wastes  itself  by  its  shining, — is 
luminous  because  it  is  burning  up.* 

These  monsters  are  the  scavengers,  executioners,  diggers, 
pioneers  and  fertilizers,  destroying  what  is  more  destructive 
than  they,  and  making  better  Hfe  possible." 

If  you  love  and  serve  men,  you  cannot,  by  any  hiding  or 
stratagem,  escape  the  remuneration." 

Wondrous  state  of  man !  never  so  happy  as  when  he  has 
lost  all  private  interests  and  regards,  and  exists  only  in 
obedience  and  love  of  the  Author." 

We  are  to  know  that  we  are  never  without  a  pilot.  When 
we  know  not  how  to  steer,  and  dare  not  hoist  a  sail,  we  can 
drift.  The  current  knows  the  way,  though  we  do  not.  When 
the  stars  and  sun  appear,  when  we  have  conversed  with  navi- 
gators who  know  the  coast,  we  may  begin  to  put  out  an  oar 
and  trim  a  sail.  The  ship  of  heaven  guides  itself,  and  will 
not  accept  a  wooden  rudder." 

What  is  true  in  thought?  What  is  just  in  action?  It  is 
the  yielding  of  the  private  heart  to  the  Divine  mind,  and  all 
personal  preferences,  and  all  requiring  of  wonders,  are 
profane.' 

As  the  sentiment  purifies  and  rises,  it  leaves  crowds." 

It  is  very  sad  to  see  men  who  think  their  goodness  made 
of  themselves ;  it  is  very  grateful  to  see  those  who  hold  an 
opinion  the  reverse  of  this." 

By  humility  we  rise,  by  obedience  we  command,  by  pov- 
erty we  are  rich,  by  dying  we  live." 

It  is  certain  that  many  dark  hours,  many  imbecilities, 
periods  of  inactivity, — solstices  when  we  make  no  progress, 
but  stand  still, — will  occur.  In  those  hours  we  can  find  com- 
fort in  reverence  of  the  highest  power,  and  only  in  that.t 

Unlovely,  nay,  frightful,  is  the  solitude  of  the  soul  which 
is  without  God  in  the  world. t 

It  is  a  comfort  to  reflect  that  the  gigantic  evils  which 

{Education.  "The  Sovereignty  of  Ethics 

•The  Superlative.  fThe  Preacher. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  247 

seem  to  us  so  mischievous  and  so  incurable  will  at  last  end 
themselves  and  rid  the  world  of  their  presence,  as  all  crime 
sooner  or  later  must.  But  be  that  event  for  us  soon  or  late, 
we  are  not  excused  from  playing  our  short  part  in  the  best 
manner  we  can,  no  matter  how  insignificant  our  aid  may  be."'" 

The  essential  ground  of  a  new  book  or  a  new  sermon  is 
a  new  spirit.  The  author  has  a  new  thought,  sees  the  sweep 
of  a  more  comprehensive  tendency  than  others  are  aware 
of ;  falters  never,  but  takes  the  victorious  tone.*'' 

He  belongs  to  a  superior  society,  and  is  born  one  or  two 
centuries  too  early  for  the  rough  and  sensual  population  into 
which  he  is  thrown.* 

The  intellectual  man  lives  in  perpetual  victory.  As  cer- 
tainly as  water  falls  in  rain  on  the  tops  of  mountains  and 
runs  down  into  valleys,  plains  and  pits,  so  does  thought  fall 
first  on  the  best  minds,  and  run  down,  from  class  to  class, 
until  it  reaches  the  masses,  and  works  revolutions.* 

There  is  respect  due  to  your  teachers,  but  every  age  is 
new,  and  has  problems  to  solve,  insoluble  by  the  last  age. 
Men  over  forty  are  no  judges  of  a  book  written  in  a  new 
spirit.  Neither  your  teachers,  nor  the  universal  teachers, 
the  laws,  the  customs  or  the  dogmas  of  nations,  neither 
saint  nor  sage,  can  compare  with  that  counsel  which  is  open 
to  you.* 

Like  them  he  will  joyfully  lose  days  and  months,  and 
estates  and  credit,  in  the  profound  hope  that  one  restoring, 
all  rewarding,  immense  success  will  arrive  at  last,  which  will 
give  him  at  one  bound  a  universal  dominion.* 

I  should  wish  your  energy  to  run  in  works  and  emergen- 
cies growing  out  of  your  personal  character.  Nature  will 
fast  enough  instruct  you  in  the  occasion  and  the  need,  and 
will  bring  to  each  of  you  the  crowded  hour,  the  great  oppor- 
tunity.* 

There  was  never  anything  that  did  not  proceed  from  a 
thought.* 

The  scholar,  when  he  comes,  will  be  known  by  an  energy 
that  will  animate  all  who  see  him.* 

tThe  Preacher.  tThe  Man  of  Letters.  •The  Scholar. 


248  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

We  who  should  be  the  channel  of  that  unweariable  Power 
which  never  sleeps  must  give  our  diligence  no  holidays.* 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  thoughtful  man  needs  no  armor 
but  this — concentration.  One  thing  is  for  him  settled,  that 
he  is  to  come  at  his  ends.  He  is  not  there  to  defend  himself, 
but  to  deliver  his  message :  if  his  voice  is  clear,  then  clearly ; 
if  husky,  then  huskily ;  if  broken,  he  can  at  least  scream ;  gag 
him,  he  can  still  write  it;  bruise,  mutilate  him,  cut  off  his 
hands  and  feet,  he  can  still  crawl  toward  his  object  on  his 
stumps.* 

The  hero  rises  out  of  all  comparison  with  contemporaries 
and  with  ages  of  men,  because  he  disesteems  old  age,  and 
lands,  and  money,  and  power,  and  will  oppose  all  mankind 
at  the  call  of  that  private  and  perfect  Right  and  Beauty  in 
which  he  lives.* 

I  like  to  see  a  man  of  that  virtue  that  no  obscurity  or 
disguise  can  conceal,  who  wins  all  souls  by  his  way  of 
thinking.* 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  spiritual  energy  in  the  universe, 
but  it  is  not  palpable  to  us  until  we  can  make  it  up  into  man.* 

Truth  alone  is  great.* 

The  scholar  must  be  ready  for  bad  weather,  poverty, 
insult,  weariness,  repute  of  failure  and  many  vexations.  He 
is  to  know  that  in  the  last  resort  he  is  not  here  to  work,  but 
to  be  worked  upon.  He  is  to  eat  insult,  drink  insult,  be 
clothed  and  shod  in  insult  until  he  has  learned  that  this  bitter 
bread  and  shameful  dress  is  also  wholesome  and  warm,  is, 
in  short,  indifferent ;  is  of  the  same  chemistry  as  praise  and 
fat  living;  that  they  also  are  disgrace  and  soreness  to  him 
who  has  them.* 

He  is  still  to  decline  how  many  glittering  opportunities, 
and  to  retreat,  and  wait.* 

Other  men  are  lenses  through  which  we  read  our  own 
minds.* 

I  count  him  a  great  man  who  inhabits  a  higher  sphere  of 
thought,  into  which  other  men  rise  with  labor  and  diffi- 
culty.* 

♦The  Scholar.  JUses  of  Great  Man. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  249 

Something  is  wanting  to  science  until  it  has  been  human- 
ized.* 

Nature  never  sends  a  great  man  into  the  planet  without 
confiding  the  secret  to  another  soul.* 

In  him  the  freest  abandonment  is  united  with  the  pre- 
cision of  a  geometer.** 

The  sciences,  even  the  best, — mathematics  and  astron- 
omy,— are  like  sportsmen,  who  seize  whatever  prey  offers, 
even  without  being  able  to  make  any  use  of  it.** 

Vice  can  never  know  itself  and  virtue,  but  virtue  knows 
both  itself  and  vice.** 

Astronomy  is  excellent ;  but  it  must  come  up  into  life  to 
have  its  full  value,  and  not  remain  there  in  globes  and  spaces." 

The  man  co-operates ;  he  loves  to  communicate ;  and  that 
which  is  for  him  to  say  lies  as  a  load  on  his  heart  until  it  is 
delivered. t 

Act,  if  you  like, — but  you  do  it  at  your  peril. ''■ 

Talent  alone  cannot  make  a  writer.  There  must  be  a 
man  behind  the  book;  a  personality  which  by  birth  and 
quality  is  pledged  to  the  doctrine  there  set  forth,  and  which 
exists  to  see  and  state  things  so,  and  not  otherwise ;  holding 
things  because  they  are  things.  If  he  cannot  rightly  express 
himself  today,  the  same  things  subsist  and  will  open  them- 
selves tomorrow.  There  lies  the  burden  on  his  mind, — ^the 
burden  of  truth  to  be  declared, — more  or  less  understood; 
and  it  constitutes  his  business  and  calling  in  the  world  to  see 
those  facts  through,  and  to  make  them  known. ■*■ 

The  stars  awaken  a  certain  reverence,  because  though 
always  present,  they  are  inaccessible."" 

An  action  is  the  perfection  and  publication  of  thought." 

A  dream  may  let  us  deeper  into  the  secret  of  nature  than 
a  hundred  concerted  experiments."" 

No  man  ever  prayed  heartily  without  learning  some- 
thing."" 

Action  is  with  the  scholar  subordinate,  but  it  is  essential. 
Without  it  he  is  not  yet  man.    Without  it  thought  can  never 

tUses  of  Great  Men.  *  •Plato.  °  S wedenbor^. 

tGoethe.  ""Nature. 


250  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

ripen  into  truth.  .  .  .  Inaction  is  cowardice,  but  there  can 
be  no  scholar  without  the  heroic  mind.* 

When  the  scholar  can  read  God  directly,  the  hour  is  too 
precious  to  be  wasted  in  other  men's  transcripts  of  their 
readings.* 

Great  men  do  not  content  us.  It  is  their  solitude,  not 
their  force,  that  makes  them  conspicuous." 

Did  he  not  come  into  being  because  something  must  be 
done  which  he  and  no  other  is  and  does." 

What  is  strong  but  goodness,  and  what  is  energetic  but 
the  presence  of  a  brave  man?° 

You  need  not  speak  to  me,  I  need  not  go  where  you  are, 
that  you  should  exert  magnetism  on  me.  Be  you  only  whole 
and  sufficient,  and  I  shall  feel  you  in  every  part  of  my  life 
and  fortune,  and  I  can  as  easily  dodge  the  gravitation  of  the 
globe  as  escape  your  influence." 

A  man  was  born  not  for  prosperity,  but  to  suffer  for  the 
benefit  of  others,  like  the  noble  rock-maple  which  all  around 
our  villages  bleeds  for  the  service  of  man." 

Deserve  thy  genius ;  exalt  it.  The  good,  the  illuminated, 
sit  apart  from  the  rest,  censuring  their  dullness  and  vices,  as 
if  they  thought  that  by  sitting  very  grand  in  their  chairs,  the 
very  brokers,  attorneys  and  congressmen  would  see  the 
error  of  their  ways,  and  flock  to  them.  But  the  good  and 
wise  must  learn  to  act,  and  carry  salvation  to  the  combatants 
and  demagogues  in  the  dusty  arena  below. ■*" 

For  the  path  which  the  hero  travels  alone  is  the  highway 
of  health  and  benefit  to  mankind. t 

Where  is  he  who  seeing  a  thousand  men  useless  and  un- 
happy, and  making  the  whole  region  forlorn  by  their  inac- 
tion, and  conscious  himself  of  possessing  the  faculty  they 
want,  does  not  hear  his  call  to  go  and  be  their  king.* 

Yet  only  by  the  supernatural  is  a  man  strong ;  nothing  is 
so  weak  as  an  egotist.  Nothing  is  mightier  than  we,  when 
we  are  vehicles  of  a  truth  before  which  the  State  and  the 
individvial  are  alike  ephemeral.* 

•The  American  Scholar.  fThe  Transcendentalist. 

"The  Method  of  Nature.  JThe  Young  American. 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  251 

We  are  fired  with  the  hope  to  reform  men.  After  many 
experiments  we  find  that  we  must  begin  earHer, — at  school.* 

But  the  Hghtning  which  explodes  and  fashions  planets, 
maker  of  planets  and  suns,  is  in  him.* 

We  sit  and  rule,  and,  though  we  sleep,  our  dream  will 
come  to  pass.* 

No  man  has  a  right  perception  of  any  truth  who  has  not 
been  reacted  on  by  it  so  as  to  be  ready  to  be  its  martyr.* 

One  way  is  right  to  go;  the  hero  sees  it,  and  moves  on 
that  aim,  and  has  the  world  under  him  for  root  and  support. 
He  is  to  others  as  the  world.  His  approbation  is  honor ;  his 
dissent,  infamy.  The  glance  of  his  eye  has  the  force  of  sun- 
beams.* 

But  every  jet  of  chaos  which  threatens  to  exterminate 
us  is  convertible  by  intellect  into  wholesome  force.  .  .  . 
The  water  drowns  ship  and  sailor  like  a  grain  of  dust.  But 
learn  to  swim,  trim  your  bark,  and  the  wave  which  drowned 
it  will  be  cloven  by  it  and  carry  it  like  its  own  foam,  a  plume 
and  a  power.* 

Physical  force  has  no  value  where  there  is  nothing  else." 

One  of  the  benefits  of  a  college  education  is  to  show  the 
boy  its  little  avail."*" 

He  that  does  not  fill  a  place  at  home,  cannot  abroad.  He 
only  goes  there  to  hide  his  insignificance  in  a  larger  crowd. "*■ 

The  mark  of  the  man  of  the  world  is  absence  of  preten- 
sion. He  does  not  make  a  speech,  he  takes  a  low  business- 
tone,  avoids  all  brag,  is  nobody,  dresses  plainly,  promises  not 
at  all,  performs  much,  speaks  in  monosyllables,  hugs  his 
fact.t 

He  who  should  inspire  and  lead  his  race  must  be  de- 
fended from  traveling  with  the  souls  of  other  men,  from 
living,  breathing,  reading  and  writing  in  the  daily,  time- 
worn  yoke  of  their  opinions. ■*■ 

The  high  advantage  of  university  life  is  often  the  mere 
mechanical  one,  I  may  call  it,  of  a  separate  chamber  and 
fire.'*' 

But  the  wiser  God  says,  Take  the  shame,  the  poverty  and 

•Fate.  "Power,  tCulture. 


252  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

the  penal  solitude  that  belong  to  truth-speaking.  Try  the 
rough  water  as  well  as  the  smooth."'' 

Don't  be  so  tender  at  making  an  enemy  now  and  then. 
Be  willing  to  go  to  Coventry  sometimes,  and  let  the  populace 
bestow  on  you  their  coldest  contempts.  The  finished  man  of 
the  world  must  eat  of  every  apple  once.  He  must  hold  his 
hatreds  also  at  arm's  length,  and  not  remember  spite.  He 
has  neither  friends  nor  enemies,  but  values  men  only  as 
channels  of  power."'" 

If  there  is  any  great  and  good  thing  in  store  for  you,  it 
will  not  come  at  the  first  or  the  second  call,  nor  in  the  shape 
of  fashion,  ease,  and  city  drawing-rooms.  Popularity  is  for 
dolls.t 

The  measure  of  a  master  is  his  success  in  bringing  all 
men  round  to  his  opinion  twenty  years  later.  "^ 

The  age  of  the  quadruped  is  to  go  out,  the  age  of  the 
brain  and  of  the  heart  is  to  come  in."*" 

Men  are  like  Geneva  watches  with  crystal  faces  which 
expose  the  whole  movement.* 

Nature  forever  puts  a  premium  on  reality.  What  is 
done  for  effect  is  seen  to  be  done  for  effect ;  what  is  done 
for  love  is  felt  to  be  done  for  love.* 

The  man  that  stands  by  himself,  the  universe  stands  by 
him  also.* 

Only  those  can  help  in  counsel  or  conduct  who  did  not 
make  a  party  pledge  to  defend  this  or  that,  but  who  were 
appointed  by  God  Almighty,  before  they  came  into  the 
world,  to  stand  for  this  which  they  uphold.* 

Forget  your  books  and  traditions,  and  obey  your  moral 
perceptions  at  this  hour.* 

It  is  true  that  genius  takes  its  rise  out  of  mountains  of 
rectitude;  that  all  beauty  and  power  which  men  covet  are 
somehow  born  out  of  that  Alpine  district;  that  any  extra- 
ordinary degree  of  beauty  in  man  or  woman  involves  a 
moral  charm.  .  .  .  For  such  persons  are  nearer  to  the 
secret  of  God  than  others ;  are  bathed  by  sweeter  waters ; 
they  hear  notices,  they  see  visions,  where  others  are  vacant.* 

tCulture.  ^Behavior.  *Worship. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  253 

The  moment  of  your  loss  of  faith  and  acceptance  of  the 
lucrative  standard  will  be  marked  in  the  pause  or  solstice  of 
genius,  the  sequent  retrogression,  and  the  inevitable  loss  of 
attraction  to  other  minds.  The  vulgar  are  sensible  of  the 
change  in  you,  and  of  your  descent,  though  they  clap  you  on 
the  back  and  congratulate  you  on  your  increased  common- 
sense.* 

You  cannot  hide  any  secret.  If  the  artist  succor  his 
flagging  spirits  by  opium  or  wine,  his  work  will  characterize 
itself  as  the  effect  of  opium  or  wine.* 

I  look  on  that  man  as  happy,  who,  when  there  is  ques- 
tion of  success,  looks  into  his  work  for  a  reply,  not  into  the 
market,  not  into  opinion,  not  into  patronage.* 

He  who  has  acquired  the  ability  may  wait  securely  the 
occasion  of  making  it  felt  and  appreciated,  and  know  that 
it  will  not  loiter.  Men  talk  as  if  victory  were  something 
fortunate.  Work  is  victory.  Wherever  work  is  done,  vic- 
tory is  obtained.* 

Every  man's  task  is  his  life-preserver.  The  conviction 
that  his  work  is  dear  to  God  and  cannot  be  spared  de- 
fends him.* 

The  weight  of  the  universe  is  pressed  down  on  the 
shoulders  of  each  moral  agent  to  hold  him  to  his  task.  The 
only  path  of  escape  known  in  all  the  worlds  of  God  is  per- 
formance. You  must  do  your  work  before  you  shall  be 
released.* 

That  by  which  a  man  conquers  in  any  passage  is  a  pro- 
found secret  to  every  other  being  in  the  world,  and  it  is 
only  as  he  turns  his  back  on  us  and  on  all  men  and  draws  on 
his  most  private  wisdom  that  any  good  can  come  to  him." 

"There  are  none  but  men  of  strong  passions  capable  of 
going  to  greatness."*     (Mirabeau). 

Passion,  though  a  bad  regulator,  is  a  powerful  spring. ° 

The  human  heart  concerns  us  more  than  the  poring  into 
microscopes,  and  is  larger  than  can  be  measured  by  the 
pompous  figures  of  the  astronomer. ^ 

These  geologies,  chemistries,  astronomies,  seem  to  make 

•Worship.  "Considerations  by  the  Way.  tBeauty. 


254  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

wise,  but  they  leave  us  where  they  found  us.  The  invention 
is  of  use  to  the  inventor,  of  questionable  help  to  any  other. 
The  formulas  of  science  are  like  the  papers  in  your  pocket- 
book,  of  no  value  to  any  but  the  owner.  Science  in  England, 
in  America  is  jealous  of  theory,  hates  the  name  of  love  and 
moral  purpose.  There  is  a  revenge  for  this  inhumanity. 
What  manner  of  man  does  science  make?  The  boy  is  not 
attracted.  He  says,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  such  a  kind  of  man 
as  my  professor  is.  The  collector  has  dried  all  the  plants  in 
his  herbal,  but  he  has  lost  weight  and  humor.  He  has  got 
all  snakes  and  lizards  in  his  phials,  but  science  has  done  for 
him  also,  and  has  put  the  man  into  a  bottle."'' 

We  see  faces  every  day  which  have  a  good  type  but  have 
been  marred  in  the  casting;  a  proof  that  we  are  all  entitled 
to  beauty,  should  have  been  beautiful  if  our  ancestors  had 
kept  the  laws, — as  every  lily  and  rose  is  well."'' 

Men  who  make  themselves  felt  in  the  world  avail  them- 
selves of  a  certain  fate  in  their  constitution  which  they  know 
how  to  use.  But  they  never  deeply  interest  us  unless  they 
lift  a  corner  of  the  curtain,  or  betray,  never  so  slightly, 
their  penetration  of  what  is  behind  it.* 

The  idiot,  the  Indian,  the  child  and  unschooled  farmer's 
boy  stand  nearer  to  the  light  by  which  nature  is  to  be  read, 
than  the  dissector  or  the  antiquary.* 

To  believe  your  own  thought,  to  believe  that  what  is 
true  for  you  in  your  private  heart  is  true  for  all  men, — ^that 
is  genius.* 

A  man  should  learn  to  detect  and  watch  that  gleam  of 
light  which  flashes  across  his  mind  from  within,  more  than 
the  lustre  of  the  firmament  of  bards  and  sages."  , 

It  is  easy  in  the  world  to  Hve  after  the  world's  opinion ; 
it  is  easy  in  solitude  to  live  after  our  own ;  but  the  great 
man  is  he  who  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with  perfect 
sweetness  the  independence  of  solitude." 

To  be  great  is  to  be  misunderstood." 

Do  that  which  is  assigned  you,  and  you  cannot  hope  too 
much  or  dare  too  much." 

tBeauty.  ♦History.  tlllusions.  "Self -Reliance. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  255 

A  great  man  is  always  willing  to  be  little.''' 

Blame  is  safer  than  praise.  I  hate  to  be  defended  in  a 
newspaper.  As  long  as  all  that  is  said  is  said  against  me,  I 
feel  a  certain  assurance  of  success.  But  as  soon  as  honeyed 
words  of  praise  are  spoken  for  me  I  feel  as  one  that  lies 
unprotected  before  his  enemies.''' 

Somewhere,  not  only  every  orator  but  every  rilan  should 
let  out  all  the  length  of  all  the  reins ;  should  find  or  make  a 
frank  and  hearty  expression  of  what  force  and  meaning  is 
in  him.* 

Until  he  can  manage  to  communicate  himself  to  others 
in  his  full  stature  and  proportion,  he  does  not  yet  find  his 
vocation.* 

Whatever  he  knows  and  thinks,  whatever  in  his  appre- 
hension is  worth  doing,  that  let  him  communicate,  or  men 
will  never  know  and  honor  him  aright.* 

What  your  heart  thinks  great,  is  great.* 

God  screens  us  evermore  from  premature  ideas.  Our 
eyes  are  holden  that  we  cannot  see  things  that  stare  us  in  the 
face,  until  the  hour  arrives  when  the  mind  is  ripened ;  then 
we  behold  them,  and  the  time  when  we  saw  them  not  is  like 
a  dream.* 

Let  him  be  great  and  love  shall  follow  him.* 

There  is  no  teaching  until  the  pupil  is  brought  into  the 
same  state  or  principle  in  which  you  are ;  a  transfusion  takes 
place ;  he  is  you  and  you  are  he ;  then  is  a  teaching,  and 
by  no  unfriendly  chance  or  bad  company  can  he  ever  quite 
lose  the  benefit.* 

The  great  man  knew  not  that  he  was  great.  It  took  a 
century  or  two  for  that  fact  to  appear.  What  he  did,  he  did 
because  he  must ;  it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world, 
and  grew  out  of  the  circumstances  of  the  moment.* 

A  man  passes  for  that  he  is  worth.  What  he  is  en- 
graves itself  on  his  face,  on  his  form,  on  his  fortunes,  in 
letters  of  light.  Concealment  avails  him  nothing,  boasting 
nothing.  There  is  confession  in  the  glances  of  our  eyes,  in 
our  smiles,  in  salutations,  and  the  grasp  of  hands.    His  sin 

tCompensation.  ^Spiritual  Laws. 


256  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

bedaubs  him,  mars  all  his  good  impression.  Men  know  not 
why  they  do  not  trust  him,  but  they  do  not  trust  him.  His 
vice  glasses  his  eye,  cuts  lines  of  mean  expression  in  his 
cheek,  pinches  the  nose,  sets  the  mark  of  the  beast  on  the 
back  of  the  head,  and  writes  O  fool !  fool !  on  the  forehead 
of  a  king.* 

When  a  man  speaks  the  truth  in  the  spirit  of  truth, 
his  eye  is  as  clear  as  the  heavens.  When  he  has  base 
ends  and  speaks  falsely,  the  eye  is  muddy  and  sometimes 
asquint.* 

To  think  is  to  act.* 

A  man  who  stands  united  with  his  thought  conceives 
magnificently  of  himself.  He  is  conscious  of  a  universal 
success,  even  though  bought  by  uniform  particular  failures.* 

The  condition  which  high  friendship  demands  is  ability 
to  do  without  it.* 

The  higher  the  style  we  demand  of  friendship,  of  course 
the  less  easy  to  establish  it  with  flesh  and  blood.  We  walk 
alone  in  the  world.  Friends  such  as  we  desire  are  dreams 
and  fables.* 

Only  be  admonished  by  what  you  already  see,  not  to 
strike  leagues  of  friendship  with  cheap  persons,  where  no 
friendship  can  be.* 

It  never  troubles  the  sun  that  some  of  his  rays  fall  wide 
and  vain  into  ungrateful  space,  and  only  a  small  part  on  the 
reflecting  planet.* 

Our  culture  therefore  must  not  omit  the  arming  of  the 
man.  Let  him  hear  in  season  that  he  is  born  into  the  state 
of  war,  and  that  the  commonwealth  and  his  own  well-being 
require  that  he  should  not  go  dancing  in  the  weeds  of  peace, 
but  warned,  self-collected  and  neither  defying  nor  dreading 
the  thunder,  let  him  take  both  reputation  and  life  in  his 
hand,  and  with  perfect  urbanity  dare  the  gibbet  and  the  mob 
by  the  absolute  truth  of  his  speech  and  the  rectitude  of  his 
behavior.' 

Heroism  works  in  contradiction  to  the  voice  of  mankind 
and  in  contradiction,  for  a  time,  to  the  voice  of  the  great  and 

^Spiritual  Laws.  'Friendship.  "Heroism. 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  257 

good.  Heroism  is  an  obedience  to  a  secret  impulse  of  an 
individual's  character.  Now  to  no  other  man  can  its  wisdom 
appear  as  it  does  to  him,  for  every  man  must  be  supposed  to 
see  a  little  farther  on  his  own  proper  path  than  any  one  else. 
Therefore  just  and  wise  men  take  umbrage  at  his  act,  until 
after  some  little  time  be  past ;  then  they  see  it  to  be  in  unison 
with  their  acts." 

See  to  it  only  that  thyself  is  here,  and  art  and  nature, 
hope  and  fate,  friends,  angels,  and  the  Supreme  Being  shall 
not  be  absent  from  the  chamber  where  thou  sittest." 

To  speak  the  truth,  even  with  some  austerity,  to  live  with 
some  rigor  of  temperance,  or  some  extremes  of  generosity, 
seems  to  be  an  asceticism  which  common  good-nature  would 
appoint  to  those  who  are  at  ease  and  in  plenty,  in  sign  that 
they  feel  a  brotherhood  with  the  great  multitude  of  suffering 
men.  And  not  only  need  we  breathe  and  exercise  the  soul 
by  assuming  the  penalties  of  abstinence,  of  debt,  of  solitude, 
of  unpopularity, — ^but  it  behooves  the  wise  man  to  look  with 
a  bold  eye  into  those  rarer  dangers  which  sometimes  invade 
men,  and  to  familiarize  himself  with,  disgusting  forms  of 
disease,  with  sounds  of  execration,  and  the  vision  of  violent 
death?" 

A  thrill  passes  through  all  men  at  the  reception  of  new 
truth,  or  at  the  performance  of  a  great  action,  which  comes 
out  of  the  heart  of  nature."*" 

If  he  have  not  found  his  home  in  God,  his  manners,  his 
forms  of  speech,  the  turn  of  his  sentences,  the  build,  shall  I 
say,  of  all  his  opinions  will  involuntarily  confess  it,  let  him 
brave  it  out  how  he  will.  If  he  have  found  his  center,  the 
Deity  will  shine  through  him,  through  all  the  disguises  of 
ignorance,  of  ungenial  temperament,  of  unfavorable  cir- 
cumstance."'" 

Every  friend  whom  not  thy  fantastic  will  but  the  great 
and  tender  heart  in  thee  craveth  shall  lock  thee  in  his  em- 
brace."*" 

That  which  we  are,  we  shall  teach,  not  voluntarily  but 
involuntarily.     Thoughts  come  into  our  minds  by  avenues 

"Heroism.  fThe  Over-Soul. 


258  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

which  we  never  left  open,  and  thoughts  go  out  of  our  minds 
through  avenues  which  we  never  voluntarily  opened."*" 

Nothing  great  was  ever  achieved  without  enthusiasm.* 

We  have  little  control  over  our  thoughts.  We  are  the 
prisoners  of  ideas.  They  catch  us  up  for  moments  into  their 
heaven  and  so  fully  engage  us  that  we  take  no  thought  for 
the  morrow,  gaze  like  children,  without  an  effort  to  make 
them  our  own.  By  and  by  we  fall  out  of  that  rapture,  be- 
think us  where  we  have  been,  what  we  have  seen,  and  repeat 
as  truly  as  we  can  what  we  have  beheld.  As  far  as  we  can 
recall  these  ecstasies  we  carry  away  in  the  ineffaceable 
memory  the  result,  and  all  men  and  all  the  ages  confirm  it. 
It  is  called  truth.  But  the  moment  we  cease  to  report  and 
attempt  to  correct  and  contrive,  it  is  not  truth.* 

All  progress  is  an  unfolding,  like  the  vegetable  bud.  You 
have  first  an  instinct,  then  an  opinion,  then  a  knowledge,  as 
the  plant  has  root,  bud  and  fruit.  Trust  the  instinct  to  the 
end,  though  you  can  render  no  reason.  It  is  vain  to  hurry  it. 
By  trusting  it  to  the  end,  it  shall  ripen  into  truth,  and  you 
shall  know  why  you  believe.* 

Each  mind  has  its  own  method.  A  true  man  never  ac- 
quires after  college  rules.  What  you  have  aggregated  in  a 
natural  manner  surprises  and  delights  when  it  is  produced.* 

God  offers  to  every  mind  its  choice  between  truth  and 
repose.    Take  which  you  please, — ^you  can  never  have  both.* 

Every  man's  progress  is  through  a  succession  of  teachers, 
each  of  whom  seems  at  the  time  to  have  a  superlative  influ- 
ence, but  it  at  last  gives  place  to  a  new.  Frankly  let  him 
accept  it  all.  Jesus  says.  Leave  father,  mother,  house  and 
lands,  and  follow  me.    Who  leaves  all,  receives  more.* 

He  is  isolated  among  his  contemporaries  by  truth  and 
by  his  art,  but  with  this  consolation  in  his  pursuits,  that  they 
will  draw  all  men  sooner  or  later." 

The  spirit  of  the  world,  the  great  calm  presence  of  the 
Creator,  comes  not  forth  to  the  sorceries  of  opium  or  of 
wine.  The  sublime  vision  comes  to  the  pure  and  simple  soul 
in  a  clean  and  chaste  body." 

tThe  Over-Soul.  ^Circles.  *Intellect.  "The  Poet. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  259 

Man,  never  too  often  deceived,  still  watches  for  the 
arrival  of  a  brother  who  can  hold  him  steady  to  a  truth  until 
he  has  made  it  his  own/ 

I  think  nothing  is  of  any  value  in  books  excepting  the 
transcendental  and  extraordinary.  If  a  man  is  inflamed  and 
carried  away  by  his  thought,  to  that  degree  that  he  forgets 
the  authors  and  the  public  and  heeds  only  this  one  dream 
which  holds  him  like  an  insanity,  let  me  read  his  paper,  and 
you  may  have  all  the  arguments  and  histories  and  criticism." 

"By  God  it  is  in  me  and  must  go  forth  of  me."" 

Of  what  use  is  genius,  if  the  organ  is  too  convex  or  too 
concave  and  cannot  find  a  focal  distance  within  the  actual 
horizon  of  human  life.^ 

The  most  attractive  class  of  people  are  those  who  are 
powerful  obliquely  and  not  by  the  direct  stroke;  men  of 
genius,  but  not  yet  accredited;  one  gets  the  cheer  of  their 
light  without  paying  too  great  a  tax."*" 

All  writing  comes  by  grace  of  God,  and  all  doing  and 
having.^ 

There  never  was  a  right  endeavor  but  it  succeeded."^ 

Patience  and  Patience,  we  shall  win  at  the  last."*" 

Never  mind  the  ridicule,  never  mind  the  defeat ;  up  again, 
old  heart ! — it  seems  to  say, — there  is  victory  yet  for  all  jus- 
tice ;  and  the  true  romance  which  the  world  exists  to  realize 
will  be  the  transformation  of  genius  into  practical  power."^ 

Men  of  character  like  to  hear  of  their  faults ;  the  other 
class  do  not  like  to  hear  of  faults.* 

Our  houses  ring  with  laughter  and  personal  and  critical 
gossip,  but  it  helps  little.  But  the  uncivil,  unavailable  man, 
who  is  a  problem  and  a  threat  to  society,  whom  it  cannot  let 
pass  in  silence  but  must  either  worship  or  hate, — and  to 
whom  all  parties  feel  related,  both  the  leaders  of  opinion  and 
the  obscure  and  eccentric, — he  helps.* 

I  knew  an  amiable  and  accomplished  person  who  under- 
took a  practical  reform,  yet  I  was  never  able  to  find  in  him 
the  enterprise  of  love  he  took  in  hand.  He  adopted  it  by 
ear  and  by  the  understanding  from  the  books  he  had  been 

"The  Poet.  tExperience.  tCharacter. 


26o  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

reading.  All  his  action  was  tentative,  a  piece  of  the  city 
carried  out  into  the  fields,  and  was  the  city  still,  and  no  new 
fact,  and  could  not  inspire  enthusiasm.  Had  there  been 
something  latent  in  the  man,  a  terrible  undemonstrated 
genius  agitating  and  embarrassing  his  demeanor,  we  had 
watched  for  its  advent.  It  is  not  enough  that  the  intellect 
should  see  the  evils  and  their  remedy.* 

Fear,  when  your  friends  say  to  you  what  you  have  done 
well,  and  say  it  through ;  but  when  they  stand  with  uncertain 
timid  looks  of  respect  and  half-dislike,  and  must  suspend 
their  judgment  for  years  to  come,  you  may  begin  to  hope.* 

Great  men  are  not  commonly  in  Fashion's  halls ;  they  are 
absent  in  the  field;  they  are  working,  not  triumphing.* 

Without  electricity  the  air  would  rot,  and  without  this 
violence  of  direction  which  men  and  women  have,  without  a 
spice  of  bigot  and  fanatic,  no  excitement,  no  efficiency.  We 
aim  above  the  mark  to  hit  the  mark.  Every  act  hath  some 
falsehood  of  exaggeration  in  it.° 

No  man  is  quite  sane;  each  has  a  vein  of  folly  in  his 
composition,  a  slight  determination  of  blood  to  the  head,  to 
make  sure  of  holding  him  hard  to  some  one  point  which 
nature  had  taken  to  heart." 

Not  less  remarkable  is  the  over  faith  of  each  man  in  the 
importance  of  what  he  has  to  do  or  say.  The  poet,  the 
prophet,  has  a  higher  value  for  what  he  utters  than  any 
hearer,  and  therefore  it  gets  spoken." 

For  no  man  can  write  anything  who  does  not  think  that 
what  he  writes  is  for  the  time  the  history  of  the  world ;  or 
do  anything  well  who  does  not  esteem  his  work  to  be  of 
importance.  My  work  may  be  of  none,  but  I  must  not 
think  it  of  none,  or  I  shall  not  do  it  with  impunity.* 

The  form  of  government  which  prevails  is  the  expres- 
sion of  what  cultivation  exists  in  the  population  which  per- 
mits it."^ 

What  the  tender  poetic  youth  dreams,  and  prays,  and 
paints  today,  but  shuns  the  ridicule  of  saying  aloud,  shall 
presently  be  the  resolutions  of  public  bodies. ■*" 

tCharacter.  •Manners.  "Nature.  fPolitics. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  261 

Every  project  in  the  history  of  reform,  no  matter  how 
violent  and  surprising,  is  good  when  it  is  the  dictate  of  a 
man's  genius  and  constitution,  but  very  dull  and  suspicious 
when  adopted  from  another.* 

We  are  students  of  words:  we  are  shut  up  in  schools, 
and  colleges,  and  recitation-rooms,  for  ten  or  fifteen  years, 
and  come  out  at  last  with  a  bag  of  wind,  a  memory  of  words, 
and  do  not  know  a  thing.* 

Men  in  all  ways  are  better  than  they  seem.  They  like 
flattery  for  the  moment,  but  they  know  the  truth  for  their 
own.  It  is  a  foolish  cowardice  which  keeps  us  from  trusting 
them  and  speaking  to  them  rude  truth.  They  resent  your 
honesty  for  an  instant,  they  will  thank  you  for  it  always. 
What  is  it  we  heartily  wish  of  each  other?  Is  it  to  be 
pleased  and  flattered  ?  No,  but  to  be  convicted  and  exposed, 
to  be  shamed  out  of  our  nonsense  of  all  kinds,  and  made 
men  of,  instead  of  ghosts  and  phantoms.* 

All  that  a  man  has  will  he  give  for  right  relations  with 
his  mates.  All  that  he  has  will  he  give  for  an  erect  de- 
meanor in  every  company  and  on  each  occasion.  He  aims 
at  such  things  as  his  neighbors  prize,  and  gives  his  days  and 
nights,  his  talents  and  his  heart,  to  strike  a  good  stroke,  to 
acquit  himself  in  all  men's  sight  as  a  man.* 

Nothing  shall  warp  me  from  the  belief  that  every  man  is 
a  lover  of  truth.* 

There  is  a  power  over  and  behind  us,  and  we  are  the 
channels  of  its  communications.* 

We  exclaim,  "There's  a  traitor  in  the  house !"  but  at  last 
it  appears  that  he  is  the  true  man,  and  I  am  the  traitor.* 

The  reward  of  a  thing  well  done  is  to  have  done  it.* 

Every  vice  is  only  an  exaggeration  of  a  necessary  and 
virtuous  function.* 

It  seems  not  unfit  that  the  scholar  should  deal  plainly 
with  society  and  tell  them  that  he  saw  well  enough  before  he 
spoke  the  consequence  of  his  speaking ;  that  up  there  in  his 
silent  study,  by  his  dim  lamp,  he  fore-heard  this  Babel  of 
outcries.     The  nature  of  man  he  knew,  the  insanity  that 

JNew  England  Reformers.  •Journal  of  1838. 


262  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

comes  of  inaction  and  tradition,  and  knew  well  that  when 
their  dream  and  routine  were  disturbed,  like  bats  and  owls 
and  nocturnal  beasts  they  would  howl  and  shriek  and  fly 
at  the  torch-bearer.  But  he  saw  plainly  that  under  this 
their  distressing  disguise  of  bird-form  and  beast-form  the 
divine  features  of  man  were  hidden,  and  he  felt  that  he 
would  dare  to  be  so  much  their  friend  as  to  do  them  this 
violence  to  drag  them  to  the  day  and  to  the  healthy  air  and 
water  of  God,  that  the  unclean  spirits  that  had  possessed 
them  might  be  exorcised  and  depart.  The  taunts  and  cries 
of  hatred  and  anger,  the  very  epithets  you  bestow  on  me,  are 
so  familiar  long  ago  in  my  reading  that  they  sound  to  me 
ridiculously  old  and  stale.  The  same  thing  has  happened  so 
many  times  over  (that  is,  with  the  appearance  of  every  orig- 
inal observer)  that,  if  people  were  not  very  ignorant  of 
literary  history,  they  would  be  struck  with  the  exact  coin- 
cidence. I,  whilst  I  see  this,  that  you  must  have  been 
shocked  and  must  cry  out  at  what  I  have  said,  I  see  too  that 
we  cannot  be  easily  reconciled,  for  I  have  a  great  deal  more 
to  say  that  will  shock  you  out  of  all  patience.* 

There  is  no  terror  like  that  of  being  known.  The  world 
lies  in  night  of  sin.  It  hears  not  the  cock  crowing;  it  sees 
not  the  grey  streak  in  the  East.  At  the  first  entering  ray  of 
light,  society  is  shaken  with  fear  and  anger  from  side  to 
side.  Who  opened  that  shutter?  they  cry.  Woe  to  him! 
They  belie  it,  they  call  it  darkness  that  comes  in,  affirming 
that  they  were  in  light  before.  Before  the  man  who  has 
spoken  to  them  the  dread  word  they  tremble  and  flee.  They 
flee  to  new  topics,  to  their  learning,  to  the  solid  institutions 
about  them,  to  their  great  men,  to  their  windows,  and  look- 
out on  the  road  and  passengers,  to  their  very  furniture,  and 
meats,  and  drinks, — anywhere,  anyhow,  to  escape  the  ap- 
parition. The  wild  horse  has  heard  the  whisper  of  the 
tamer :  the  maniac  has  caught  the  glance  of  the  keeper.  They 
try  to  forget  the  memory  of  the  speaker ;  to  put  him  down 
into  the  same  obscure  place  he  occupied  in  their  minds 
before  he  spake  to  them.     It  is  all  in  vain.     They  even 

♦Journal  of  1838. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  263 

flatter  themselves  that  they  have  killed  and  buried  the 
enemy,  when  they  have  magisterially  denied  and  denounced 
him.  But  vain,  vain,  all  vain.  It  was  but  the  first  mutter 
of  the  distant  storm  they  heard, — it  was  the  first  cry  of  the 
Revolution, — it  was  the  touch,  the  palpitation  that  goes 
before  the  earthquake.* 

Do  something;  it  matters  little  or  not  at  all  whether  it 
be  in  the  way  of  what  you  call  your  profession  or  not,  so  it 
be  in  the  plane  or  coincidence  with  the  axis  of  your  char- 
acter. The  reaction  is  always  proportional  to  the  action, 
and  it  is  the  reaction  that  we  want.  Strike  the  hardest  blow 
you  can,  and  you  can  always  do  this  by  work  which  is  agree- 
able to  your  nature.    This  is  economy. t 

Gather  yourself  into  a  ball  to  be  thrown  at  the  mark."^ 
I  do  not  care  what  you  write,  but  only  that  you  should 
show  yourself  a  man  by  writing.^ 


•Journal  of  1838.  t Journal  of  1839. 


CHAPTER   XXII 


THE    THESIS 


The  temporary  quarters,  in  which  Paul  Milton  held  the 
position  of  proctor,  were  just  across  the  street  from  the 
property  on  which  the  old  dormitory  had  stood  and  on  which 
the  new  one  was  to  be  erected.  Milton's  window — the  only 
one  in  his  alcove — overlooked  this  property.  He  had  often 
sat  there  during  the  fall  term,  watching  the  laborers  tear 
down  the  old  walls.  The  destruction  of  one  of  the  corner 
rooms — the  one  in  which  he  had  tutored  Arch  Coddington, 
and  the  one  from  which  Coddington  had  taken  him  directly 
to  May  Stanley's  establishment — filled  him  with  joy. 

The  demolition  of  the  old  fraternity  house  was  com- 
pleted at  the  beginning  of  the  New  Year.  Before  the  Christ- 
mas vacation,  the  pavements  and  street  had  been  littered 
with  old  brick,  stone,  window  frames  and  plaster.  When 
Milton  returned,  all  this  debris  was  cleared  away  and  re- 
placed by  orderly  piles  of  new  brick  and  beautiful  white 
stone.  The  old  foundation  had  been  dug  up  and  hauled 
away;  and  the  new  one  was  already  begun. 

All  these  things  had  deep  significance.  It  pleased  him 
to  draw  up  analogies  between  the  work  which  was  going  on 
across  the  street  and  the  work  which  was  under  way  in 
his  own  mind.  He  too  had  destroyed  a  worthless  building 
and  was  erecting  a  new  one :  for  he  had  at  once  begun  an- 
other thesis,  which  had  humane  interests  and  fraternity  for 
its  main  theme  and  foundation.  The  building  before  him 
was  nothing  more  than  the  materialization  of  his  own 
thought,  which  continually  advanced  and  enlarged  just  as 
the  walls  rose  each  day  higher  and  higher.  Each  white 
stone,  which  the  laborers  placed  on  those  walls,  represented 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  265 

a  word ;  each  row  of  stones,  a  sentence  in  the  construction 
of  his  dissertation. 

Strangely  enough  the  university  was  erecting  a  new  re- 
search laboratory  on  the  site  next  to  the  fraternity  property, 
but  Milton  took  no  interest  in  its  progress. 

The  first  of  May  was  just  a  few  months  off.  On  that 
day  his  new  thesis  must  be  completed  and  published.  Re- 
search no  longer  fascinated  Milton.  He  sacrificed  all  other 
interests  and  concentrated  all  his  time  and  thought  on  this 
new  work. 

He  had  found  a  kind  of  research,  which  was  religious 
rather  than  scientific.  He  had  become  a  Christian.  He  was 
no  longer  a  heathen — a  worshipper  of  geometrical  config- 
urations and  thread  models;  he  had  become  a  Christian. 
Unlike  the  other  members  of  the  faculty,  who  continued 
their  idolatrous  observations  on  fossils,  molecules,  microbes, 
ions,  worms  and  meteors,  he  turned  his  attention  to  God 
and  God's  children,  to  the  human  heart  and  the  human  soul. 

It  is  true  that  he  might  still  be  called  a  maniac,  but  his 
mania  was  no  longer  a  monomania  like  geometry ;  his  mania 
had  broadened  and  deepened  and  was  no  longer  a  thing 
which  isolated  him  from  his  fellow-men;  it  was  something 
which  brought  him  closer  to  them.  His  mania  was  humanity 
— fraternity. 

It  was  indeed  the  idea  of  true  fraternity  that  had  taken 
possession  of  Paul  Milton's  mind  and  refused  to  let  any 
other  ideas  enter.  Just  as  geometry  had  once  left  no  room 
for  humanity,  so  now  did  humanity  hold  sway  and  pre- 
dominance. And  yet  he  realized  that  his  geometry  had 
helped  him  and  that  his  music  also  had  played  its  part, 
although  he  had  forsaken  them  both.  The  geometry  had 
equipped  him  with  a  sense  of  exactness;  the  music  had 
taught  him  abandonment.  These  very  qualities  were  needed 
in  his  future  work.  For  what  is  human  life  but  a  combina- 
tion of  problems  and  songs?  problems  which  disturb  yet 
inspire  us  to  work,  songs  which  soothe  and  lull  us  to  re- 
pose?   Science  and  Art  each  have  a  place  in  the  universe. 


266  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

but  not  until  they  are  humanized,  not  until  they  are  Chris- 
tianized. 

Milton  continued  to  conduct  his  classes,  although  he  had 
lost  much  of  his  old  enthusiasm  which  he  had  had  in  them. 
The  effort,  which  he  was  now  making  to  stimulate  interest 
in  their  students  among  other  teachers,  was  gradually  smoth- 
ering the  interest  which  he  once  had  in  his  own.  However 
there  was  no  guilty  conscience  to  whisper  in  his  ear  that  he 
was  neglecting  his  duties;  for  if  Leech  could  abandon  his 
teaching  in  order  to  pursue  the  researches  which  in  no  way 
benefited  his  students  but  served  merely  to  advance  him- 
self and  the  university  unduly,  then  surely  he,  Milton,  could 
also  abandon  his  teaching  to  work  unselfishly  for  the  bet- 
terment of  both  the  teacher  and  the  taught.  Therefore,  with 
De  Soto's  approval,  he  had  adopted  Leech's  policy,  and  was 
never  again  known  to  report  "ten  exclusions"  at  a  faculty 
meeting.  De  Soto  felt  that  he  had  won  a  victory — a  new 
convert  to  his  doctrine:  Not  that  I  love  teaching  less  but 
that  I  love  research  more. 

De  Soto  often  asked  Milton  how  his  thesis  was  pro- 
gressing. 

"Admirably,"  answered  the  boy. 

The  professor  felt  no  alarm  or  anxiety  because  his  dis- 
ciple no  longer  called  upon  him  for  assistance.  He  knew 
conclusively  that  the  boy  was  a  mathematical  genius,  who, 
by  this  time,  probably  understood  the  manuscript  as  thor- 
oughly as  he  himself. 

Milton  continued  to  attend  De  Soto's  lectures  in  Higher 
Geometry  and  a  few  other  graduate  courses,  but  he  had  lost 
all  interest  in  them.  While  taking  notes,  he  jotted  down 
inspirations  which  came  to  him  during  the  lecture — inspira- 
tions for  his  new  thesis — inspirations  which  meant  far  more 
to  him  and  would  mean  far  more  to  every  one  else  than  the 
dry  expositions  in  geometry,  which  the  professors  for  the 
most  part  might  just  as  well  have  addressed  to  empty 
benches. 

Milton  now  knew  definitely  that  his  presence  irritated 
Harold  Hollis,  and  he  made  no  further  effort  to  approach 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  267 

him.  One  thing  he  could  not  and  would  not  do  was  to 
annoy  or  pain  the  boy  whom  he  loved.  He  felt  that  Hollis 
had  suffered  enough  as  it  was;  he  would  not  increase  that 
suffering  by  forcing  himself  upon  the  youth  when  his  com- 
pany was  not  desired.  Even  though  the  boy  had  bolted  the 
door  against  him,  Milton  continued  to  work  and  sleep  at  his 
side,  knowing  that  when  the  partition  would  break, — as  it 
must  eventually, — the  two  brothers  would  be  united  in  their 
work  for  one  common  cause. 

Hollis'  attitude  toward  Milton  became  the  attitude  of  the 
entire  fraternity.  Such  is  the  nature  of  the  spirit  of  frater- 
nity as  it  exists  in  the  clubs  at  our  universities  and  colleges, 
nay,  in  all  secret  clans.  It  is  far  removed  from  true  frater- 
nity. It  is  a  spirit  which  destroys  individuality — the  indi- 
viduality of  God,  which  should  be  found  in  every  man.  It 
robs  a  man  of  his  personal  likes  and  virtues,  and  forces  him 
to  adopt  the  dislikes  and  opinions  of  that  body  of  which  he 
has  become  a  dependent  and  an  inseparable  member.  My 
brother's  enemies  shall  be  my  enemies  also.  What  he  hates 
I  will  likewise  hate.  Superficially  I  shall  appear  undis- 
turbed and  act  like  a  gentleman  of  honor,  but  deep  down  in 
my  heart,  hidden  from  public  view,  there  shall  be  found  the 
same  rancor  which  lies  in  the  heart  of  my  brother,  to  whose 
bosom  I  am  riveted  and  whom  I  am  pledged  to  defend,  how- 
ever unjust  and  mean  his  thoughts  and  actions  may  be:  for 
such  is  the  commandment  of  our  idol — the  Greek  letters 
with  which  we  pin  our  hearts  together. 

It  was  this  false  spirit  of  fraternity  which  Milton  would 
attack  openly  in  his  "thesis" — this  idolatrous  form  of  fra- 
ternity which  could  not  survive  but  which  must  eventually 
destroy  itself  to  make  way  for  the  genuine  brotherhood  of 
Christianity — that  brotherhood  which  forgives  sin  but  does 
not  conceal  it.  They  employed  secrecy  to  conceal  their 
rancor ;  Milton  would  employ  it  to  destroy  that  rancor.  He 
would  work  in  their  midst  without  their  knowing  it,  not 
behind  a  bolted  door,  but  openly,  yet  silently  and  alone — 
alone  save  for  the  presence  of  that  Supreme  Power  which 
works  for  good  and  good  only. 


268  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

And  after  the  message  is  delivered,  let  them  call  him  a 
spy  if  they  care  to.  He  had  gone  there  not  by  his  own  free 
will  but  by  the  will  of  that  Power  which  had  also  led  him 
elsewhere  and  awakened  in  him  a  deep  fraternal  love  for 
those  who  despised  him  and  whose  conduct  "even  disgusted 
and  repelled  him.  He  would  not  attempt  to  establish  with 
them  the  same  friendship  which  existed  among  themselves. 
By  doing  so,  he  might  be  considered  all  the  more  a  spy.  He 
did  not  wish  to  learn  the  secrets  of  that  friendship  by 
mingling  with  them ;  Providence  had  already  revealed  those 
secrets  and  revealed  them  without  the  boy's  volition. 

There  was  no  God-given  power  behind  Leech's  work; 
there  was  nothing  but  alcohol  and  nicotine  to  drive  him  on. 
Such  external  forces  are  not  needed  by  those  who  work  for 
humane  interests ;  such  forces  destroy  humane  interests.  It 
is  only  when  man's  aims  are  selfish  and  material  that  he  must 
resort  to  unnatural  and  injurious  sources  of  energy,  which 
stifle  his  love  for  humanity. 

Milton  was  merely  a  channel  for  the  Higher  Power. 
Page  after  page  seemed  to  flow  spontaneously  from  his  pen. 
At  the  time,  the  words  he  wrote  had  Httle  meaning  to  him — 
or  at  least  no  depth  of  meaning.  But  when  he  would  read 
and  reread  them,  they  seemed  to  become  more  and  more 
illuminant,  more  like  the  words  of  another.  He  himself 
cculd  not  justly  claim  the  authorship.  There  was  more  than 
he  had  originally  recorded.  There  were  thoughts  which 
appeared  even  dangerous  to  him,  but  which  he  had  to  retain 
however  much  it  pained  him  to  do  so.  He  dared  not  alter 
,  them.    How  could  any  one  alter  truth  ? 

When  the  manuscript  of  his  "thesis"  was  complete, 
Milton  sent  it  to  a  publisher  in  a  neighboring  town,  who 
promised  to  have  it  ready  in  book-form  by  the  first  of  May. 
He  did  not  return  to  his  mother's  cottage  at  Norford  during 
the  Easter  vacation,  but  remained  at  the  university  to  correct 
the  galleys  and  page-proofs  from  the  printer,  and  also  to  be 
near  by  in  order  that  he  might  communicate  with  him  in 
person.     He  wrote  a  letter  to  Alice  explaining  everything. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  269 

How  she  yearned  to  tell  Allaine  of  the  great  reform  to 
which  she  had  led  her  son !  But  she  had  promised  Paul  to 
remain  silent,  just  as  she  had  promised  Allaine;  she  alone 
knew  the  secret  which  each  was  trying  to  hold  from  the 
other.  Allaine,  as  usual,  did  not  call  at  the  cottage  during 
vacation.  Consequently,  she  did  not  discover  that  Paul  had 
not  returned,  and  therefore  never  suspected  that  he  was 
actually  going  to  agitate  the  reform  and  thus  accomplish  the 
task  in  which  she  had  hoped  and  prayed  he  would  succeed 
before  leaving  the  university — the  task  which  she  had  never 
failed  to  believe  would  save  her. 

Allaine's  engagement  had  been  formally  announced.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Bennett  seemed  happier  than  ever.  They  now  felt 
certain  that  Harold  Hollis  was  as  truly  theirs  as  though  he 
had  been  born  unto  them.  Harold  did  not  visit  Willow 
Lodge  during  Easter.  He  continued,  however,  to  write  long 
and  encouraging  letters  to  Allaine,  stating  that  the  constant 
thought  of  her  had  taken  his  mind  off  his  studies  and  that 
there  was  danger  of  his  suspension  from  the  university  if 
he  did  not  make  up  his  back  work.  Rather  than  have  such  a 
disgrace  brought  upon  Allaine,  he  preferred  to  suffer  not 
being  with  her  at  Eastertide,  and  remain  at  the  university 
over  the  holidays.  The  students  would  all  leave  town  then, 
he  wrote,  and  the  fellows  could  not  interfere  with  his  work 
on  the  books  and  lessons  which  he  had  neglected  on  her 
account.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bennett  applauded  this  great  sacri- 
fice which  Harold  was  making,  and  both  of  them  began 
to  plan  very  energetically  for  the  preparation  of  their 
daughter's  wedding  in  June.  Absence  makes  the  heart  grow 
fonder,  was  what  Mr.  Bennett  told  his  wife,  adding  that 
Allaine's  heart  would  be  overflowing  by  the  time  June  ar- 
rived, she  not  having  seen  Harold  for  almost  a  year. 

Indeed,  if  Allaine's  anxiety  to  see  Harold  had  been  half 
so  great  as  her  father's,  what  a  wonderful  meeting  and 
wedding  there  might  have  been !  But  we  know  how  she  was 
suffering.  We  know  the  silent  grief  that  was  tearing  and 
crushing  her  heart.  How  it  pained  her  to  see  the  carpenters 
coming  to  Willow  Lodge  to  take  measurements  for  the  con- 


270  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

struction  of  those  immense  pavilions,  which  were  to  be 
erected  on  the  lawn  to  accommodate  the  multitude  invited 
to  her  wedding!  Thousands  of  yards  of  smilax!  Several 
hundred  palms  !  Orchids  !  Orange  blossoms !  A  veil  and  a 
shower  bouquet !  What  thoughts  could  be  more  cruel  than 
these  ? 

There  was  but  one  other  person  who  knew  the  deep  sor- 
row which  was  concealed  under  all  of  Allaine's  forced  and 
superficial  happiness.  And  how  she  might  have  alleviated 
the  girl's  sorrow  by  relating  the  other  secret  which  she  had 
also  promised  to  keep!  If  AUaine  but  knew  what  Paul  was 
doing,  how  it  would  help  dispel  her  grief  !  If  she  could  go  to 
her  father  and  say,  with  certainty,  that  Paul  Milton  was 
performing  that  task  for  which  he  had  been  sent  to  the 
university!  If  she  could  only  proclaim,  with  truth,  that  the 
man  she  really  loved  was  not  a  failure,  then  she  might 
awaken  her  father  from  the  blissful  dream  in  which  he  had 
been  completely  submerged  by  Mr.  Richard  Hollis  and  his 
son.  She  might  even  succeed  in  canceling  the  ...  If  !  If  ! 
How  much  she,  Allaine,  had  done  for  Paul!  How  little 
he  was  doing  for  her !  Why  doesn't  he  try  to  save  me  ? 
Why  doesn't  he  come  to  my  rescue  ?    Paul !  Paul ! 

But  Paul  was  happy,  extremely  happy — happy  at  his 
desk,  reading  the  proof-sheets  of  his  "thesis."  Yet  there 
was  a  boy  in  the  room  next  to  him  who  was  even  more  mis- 
erable than  Allaine  Bennett.  Hollis  had  written  her  the 
truth :  he  did  remain  at  the  university  locked  up  in  his  room. 
How  lonely  he  was!  How  he  pined  for  company,  for  the 
company  of  some  noble  soul,  for  the  company  of  the  man 
on  the  other  side  of  the  partition !  How  he  craved  to  enter 
that  door  which  was  always  wide  open,  always  waiting  like 
an  outstretched  arm  to  receive  him ! 

It  was  the  first  day  in  the  month  of  May,  refulgent  and 
refreshing.  It  seemed  to  Milton  that  the  sun  had  never 
shone  more  gloriously  in  a  bluer  sky;  the  birds  had  never 
sung  more  happily;  the  flowers  had  never  looked  brighter; 
the  bushes  had  never  swayed  more  gracefully ;  the  bees  had 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  271 

never  stumbled  along  more  contentedly  through  the  fragrant 
clover.  Nature  was  at  her  best.  God  was  smiling,  and  his 
smile  was  illuminating,  ameliorating  and  felicitating  all  that 
he  had  created. 

Milton  appeared  bright  and  early  at  the  university 
library.  It  seemed  that  the  wind  had  carried  him  there  on 
wings;  so  happy  and  light  was  his  heart.  He  expected  to 
see  several  other  candidates  depositing  their  theses ;  he  might 
have  seen  them  had  he  gone  there  at  the  closing  hour  that 
night.  But  at  this  early  hour  he  stood  alone.  He  handed  his 
book  to  the  man  at  the  desk.  The  librarian  scrutinized  it, 
looking  for  library  marks  and  labels. 

"Is  this  one  of  our  books  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Milton.  "I  am  presenting  it  to  the 
university.  It  is  customary — is  it  not? — for  graduates  of 
the  institution  to  present  the  library  with  copies  of  their 
works." 

"Yes,"  said  the  librarian. 

"This  is  my  first  publication,"  said  Milton. 

"What  is  the  nature  of  it?" 

"It  is  my  thesis." 

The  librarian  looked  up ;  a  thesis  is  never  printed  before 
it  is  accepted. 

"Are  you  a  candidate  for  a  degree  ?" 

"I  am  a  candidate  for  truth,"  answered  Paul. 

"What  department?" 

"The  department  for  the  promotion  of  human  love  and 
brotherhood." 

The  librarian  looked  up  again. 

"Under  whose  guidance  have  you  prepared  this  work?" 
asked  the  librarian,  expecting  to  hear  the  familiar  name  of 
some  research  professor  in  the  university. 

"Under  the  guidance  of  God,"  was  the  reply. 

And  then  Paul  Milton  walked  out  into  the  sunshine 
among  the  birds  and  among  the  flowers.  When  he  returned 
to  his  room  he  seized  his  violin — his  long- forgotten  violia. 
It  trembled  ecstatically  in  his  arms,  and  sang  to  him  as  it 
had  never  sung  before. 


272  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

An  hour  later  the  president  of  the  university  was  sitting 
in  his  private  office  reading  Milton's  "thesis."  He  twitched 
about  nervously  in  his  chair,  and  at  the  end  of  each  chapter 
he  got  up  and  paced  the  floor.  By  noon  he  had  perused  the 
entire  book,  lightly  perhaps,  but  he  saw  and  understood  only 
too  well  the  theme  on  which  it  was  constructed.  Then  he 
went  to  the  telephone,  and  called  up  his  Richelieu — Pro- 
fessor Ambroise  De  Soto. 

The  following  morning  the  janitor  brought  a  note  to  the 
proctor's  room.  After  reading  it,  Milton  sat  at  his  desk, 
wrote  a  few  lines  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  appended  his  signa- 
ture, folded  the  paper  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he 
took  De  Soto's  manuscript  from  the  desk  drawer,  wrapped 
it  up,  placed  it  under  his  arm  and  hurried  off  to  the  pro- 
fessor's office. 

When  he  arrived  there,  he  knocked  on  the  door,  but  re- 
ceived no  answer.  Milton  tried  the  door  and  found  it  open. 
The  geometer  was  meditating  at  the  window.  He  had  evi- 
dently encountered  something  which  had  given  him  more 
food  for  thought  than  either  his  research  or  the  "ten  exclu- 
sions." 

"Good  morning,"  said  Milton.  "I  believe  you  wanted  to 
see  me." 

The  great  scientist  came  to  with  a  start. 

"Good  morning — ^good  morning — just  sit  down,  please." 

"It  is  a  glorious  day,"  said  Milton. 

But  the  geometer  had  something  more  important  to  talk 
about  than  the  weather. 

"Of  course  you  understand  the  object  of  this  interview," 
he  began. 

"I  suppose  it  concerns  my  thesis." 

"Yes,  since  you  prefer  to  call  it  such,"  said  the  geometer, 
with  just  a  slight  shade  of  sarcasm.  Then  he  changed  the 
tone  of  his  voice,  and  added :  "My  dear  young  man,  why, 
oh  why,  did  you  publish  this  book  before  consulting  me  ?" 

"Had  I  consulted  you  first,  it  would  never  have  been 
published,"  explained  Milton. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  273 

"And  your  career  would  then  have  been  saved,"  added 
De  Soto. 

"What  career?"  asked  Paul. 

"Your  career  as  a  mathematician.  It  was  I  who  found 
you ;  I  who  discovered  you.  You  had  remarkable  talent  and 
genius.  I  have  praised  you  before  every  professor  on  the 
faculty.  I  had  predicted  to  them  that  you  would  be  one  of 
the  foremost  geometers  of  the  future.  Your  power  of  inves- 
tigation was  so  unique,  so  rare.  What  fame  and  glory  you 
would  have  won  for  the  university  with  your  researches ! 
And  here  you  have  derided  and  condemned  the  very  thing 
for  which  Nature  has  so  excellently  equipped  you.  And  it 
all  falls  back  on  me — me  who  have  helped  you  and  done  so 
much  for  you  by  procuring  you  a  free  scholarship  and  a  free 
room  at  the  dormitory.  This  is  my  reward.  You  have  not 
only  ruined  your  own  career;  you  have  also  injured  mine. 
You  have  denounced  the  great  work  over  which  I  have 
labored  for  three  years.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  mention  your 
name  in  the  preface,  but  even  without  it  being  there,  I  feel 
that  this  book  of  yours  will  depreciate  the  value  of  my  great 
investigations." 

Great  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  little  man. 

"Ah !  it  is  not  only  my  work  which  will  suffer,"  he  con- 
tinued. "You  have  attacked,  in  an  almost  insane  manner, 
the  first  and  real  purpose  of  every  great  university.  You 
were  not  yourself  when  you  wrote  this  book ;  I  am  inclined 
to  think  you  were  out  of  your  mind.  No  sane  person  would 
attack  the  doctrine  which  the  President  of  our  great  institu- 
tion upholds — the  doctrine  that  our  main  purpose  is  the 
advancement  of  science  and  art.  We  are  trying  to  gather  all 
the  leading  scientists  into  our  fold;  we  are  planning  to  be- 
come the  foremost  research  institution  in  America.  Re- 
search is  our  motto — our  empire.  And  here  one  of  our  own 
faculty  rises  from  obscurity  and  denounces  it.  Of  course 
we  ourselves  will  not  take  you  seriously,  but  your  book  will 
harm  us  when  it  falls  into  the  hands  of  the  ignorant  and 
silly  parents  of  our  undergraduates.  They  will  certainly 
see  these  things  in  the  wrong  proportion,  in  the  wrong  light. 


274  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

If  you  had  only  brought  it  to  me  before  publishing  it!  I 
could  have  prevented  all — the  harm  which  it  is  going  to  do 
you,  the  harm  which  it  is  going  to  do  me,  and  the  harm 
which  it  is  going  to  do  the  university." 

There  was  considerable  sorrow  and  pity  in  the  tone  of 
De  Soto's  voice. 

"My  boy !"  he  cried.  "Every  one  in  the  university  will 
pity  you.  You  should  never  have  done  it.  You  undertook 
more  than  you  were  able  to  do.  You  have  had  a  little 
experience  in  Mathematical  Research,  but  you  know  noth- 
ing of  Research  along  other  lines ;  you  know  nothing  of  the 
great  achievements  which  our  faculty  are  making  in  Chem- 
istry, Eugenics,  Dietetics,  Astronomy,  Biology  and  Medi- 
cine. You  do  not  see  deeply  enough  into  these  things ;  you 
do  not  see  their  true  value.  You  do  not  see  how  much  good 
they  are  doing  for  the  world  at  large.  You  do  not  realize 
how  far-reaching  the  results  of  our  researches  are.  You 
have  undertaken  to  criticise  that  which  is  far  beyond  you. 
My  boy,  I  fear  you  have  displayed  great  stupidity  and 
ignorance." 

The  moment  had  arrived  when  Paul  Milton  could  remain 
silent  no  longer.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  squarely  in 
front  of  the  great  geometer.  He  would  not  allow  his  "good 
and  great  purpose"  to  be  referred  to  as  stupid  and  ignorant. 

"Perhaps  I  am  stupid,"  he  began  firmly.  "Perhaps  I  am 
ignorant  of  the  extensive  work  which  is  being  done  by  the 
professors  in  other  departments.  Perhaps  I  do  not  realize 
the  great  good  our  faculty  is  doing  for  the  world  at  large. 
But  I  do  know  the  conditions  that  exist  among  our  under- 
graduates, and  I  do  know  that  your  wonderful  researches 
are  not  reaching  and  improving  them.  They  are  being  neg- 
lected for  the  sake  of  research — for  a  thing  which  in  no  way 
benefits  them.  There  is  a  great  need  for  investigation  and 
discovery  right  here  among  our  students.  Why  should  we 
go  searching  for  fame  in  test  tubes,  in  bell  jars,  in  foreign 
countries,  in  prehistoric  ages,  on  other  planets,  as  long  as 
these  humane  duties  are  staring  us  in  the  face  in  our  very 
classrooms?    Why  not  direct  our  activities  toward  making 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  275 

our  Alma  Mater  a  cleaner  and  a  more  honorable  commu- 
nity? Here  is  a  field  of  true  public  service — a  field  in  which 
few  of  us  care  to  investigate — a  field  in  which  the  majority 
of  us  prefer  to  close  our  eyes.  Why  don't  we  use  love  to 
try  to  prevent  the  causes  of  injury  and  disease  which  flourish 
in  our  midst  instead  of  using  science  to  invent  medicines  and 
fads  for  temporary  remedies  ?  Why  don't  we  take  an  active 
interest  in  teaching  and  in  our  students  instead  of  an  interest 
in  research  and  roaches?  You  sent  me  to  Doctor  Leech  to 
learn  how  things  should  be  done;  he  told  me  to  pass  my 
students  and  say  nothing.  That,  he  claims,  is  the  universal 
policy  among  your  teachers.  Teachers !  they  do  not  deserve 
the  name.  And  what  is  your  own  opinion  in  regard  to 
teaching?  It  consists  of  throwing  a  measureful  of  corn  to  a 
flock  of  geese.  Geese !  that  is  the  extent  of  your  considera- 
tion for  your  students.  You  consider  them  as  a  flock  of 
geese,  not  as  a  class  of  men.  You  make  no  effort  to  ascer- 
tain their  individual  needs  and  attention.  You  let  them  do 
just  as  they  please.  You  allow  them  to  neglect  the  very 
studies  which  should  serve  to  sharpen  their  minds  and  enable 
them  to  reason.  They  do  not  know  the  difference  between 
right  and  wrong,  between  virtue  and  vice.  You  ignore  their 
moral  and  their  intellectual  education  as  long  as  their  inter- 
est in  athletics  and  other  extra-curriculum  activities  brings 
the  university  into  the  public  eye.  Your  aims  are  too  selfish 
to  even  think  of  their  welfare.  Your  own  future  and 
the  future  of  the  university — that  is  the  sum  total  of  your 
interests.  What  difference  does  it  matter  if  our  students 
are  sinking  as  long  as  the  reputation  of  our  university  is 
growing — a  reputation  founded  on  research  and  football. 
This  is  your  notion  of  fame,  is  it?  this  frenzied  effort  to 
expand,  to  dash  forward,  to  flare  up  no  matter  what  the 
expense?  Who  is  more  insane?  You  or  I?  Who  is  the 
madder  of  the  two?  You  say  I  have  ruined  my  career.  If 
so,  I  have  done  it  to  save  the  careers  of  my  brothers.  What 
is  all  your  mathematical  research  worth  compared  with  the 
uprightness  of  a  hundred  students?  Is  this  dry,  fantastic, 
impractical   geometry   which  you   call   my   career — is   this 


276  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

worth  more  to  the  world  than  the  careers  of  a  hundred 
American  boys?  If  I  had  a  dozen  such  mathematical 
careers  before  me,  I  should  abandon  them  one  and  all  to 
save  the  boys  I  love.  You  do  not  realize  how  much  immor- 
ality flourishes  about  you,  or  perhaps  you  do,  but  you  do  not 
care  to  admit  it.  If  you  had  seen  and  heard  what  I  have, 
your  lips  would  not  remain  closed  to  the  parents  of  our 
undergraduates  unless  you  are  a  man  of  no  heart,  which  I 
believe  you  are.  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  it.  You  are 
not  interested  in  your  students  because  you  do  not  love 
them ;  you  actually  try  to  avoid  them.  If  they  held  the  place 
in  your  heart  that  they  hold  in  mine,  you  would  have  given 
up  this  selfish  career  of  yours  long  ago.  You  do  not  know 
what  it  means  to  love  your  fellow-men.  You  have  never 
experienced  the  anguish  of  seeing  your  loved  ones  torn  and 
mangled  with  beastly  brutality.  You  have  never  felt  the 
pain  and  the  sympathy  which  I  have  felt  upon  learning  that 
the  brother  I  so  loved  was  disfigured,  withered,  poisoned, 
polluted,  ruined  by  a  disease  which  might  have  been  so 
easily  prevented.  Your  heart  has  never  bled  for  one  whom 
you  love  with  all  your  soul  and  body.  Your  Hfe's  blood  has 
never  known  the  warmth  of  true  fraternal  devotion.  It  is 
cold;  it  is  frozen  in  your  veins  and  arteries.  It  has  never 
been  thawed  by  human  affection.  I  may  be  stupid  and 
ignorant  in  regard  to  the  great  benefits  of  research,  but  I  am 
at  least  a  Christian.  I  no  longer  sit  at  my  desk  and  worship 
idols.  I  do  not  kneel  to  the  university  which  you  are  trying 
to  place  on  a  pedestal.  My  interest  lies  in  the  souls  of  her 
students.  You  have  forsaken  them.  To  you,  love  is  an  illu- 
sion, and  Christianity  is  a  farce.  You  have  forsaken  the 
brotherhood  of  man.  You  have  forsaken  God  Himself  for 
your  idolized  research.  I  shall  no  longer  assist  you  in  it.  I 
have  solved  all  the  problems  in  your  manuscript,  but  I  have 
burned  all  the  solutions.  I  have  tossed  them  among  the 
flames  and  have  allowed  their  light  to  show  me  how  worth- 
less they  were.  Here  is  your  manuscript ;  I  am  through 
with  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  see  it  again.  Neither  do  I  care  to 
have  a  degree  conferred  upon  me,  not  when  it  is  the  reward 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  277 

of  such  work  as  this.  I  would  far  rather  do  a  useful  Chris- 
tian task  which  goes  unrewarded.  Nor  shall  I  remain 
longer  in  an  institution  which  places  its  interest  in  vases, 
bugs,  octic  curves,  horses'  skeletons  and  guinea  pigs  above 
its  interest  in  the  welfare  of  its  students,  who  are  to  become 
the  future  citizens  of  America.  Here,  Sir,  is  my  resigna- 
tion." 

It  seemed  the  boy  had  uttered  this  entire  discourse  with- 
out taking  a  single  breath.  The  geometer  had  not  inter- 
rupted him  once  during  the  long  arraignment.  De  Soto 
indeed  appeared  to  grow  smaller  and  smaller  in  the  presence 
of  the  inflamed  youth  before  him,  and  by  the  time  Milton 
had  finished  speaking,  he  was  curiously  drawn  in  like  a 
spider  trying  to  escape  the  notice  of  him  who  has  destroyed 
its  web. 

After  Milton  left  the  office,  De  Soto  gradually  assumed 
his  natural  dimensions  and  form.  He  quickly  seized  the 
manuscript  which  had  been  left  on  his  desk,  for  he  feared 
the  boy  might  return  and  tear  it  to  shreds.  He  nervously 
broke  the  twine  and  removed  the  wrapping  to  look  at  the 
precious  work  which  was  so  dear  to  him  and  which  had 
been  separated  from  him  so  long  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy. 
Several  sheets  of  paper,  of  the  same  size  and  quality  as  his 
own  manuscript,  fluttered  to  the  floor,  displaying  systems  of 
circles  and  other  curves  beautifully  drawn  in  brilliant  col- 
ored inks — carmine,  green,  orange,  purple — like  a  flock  of 
birds  of  paradise  escaping  from  a  cage.  The  geometer  hur- 
riedly looked  through  all  the  sheets  which  remained  in  the 
package.  He  found  them  covered  with  similar  designs  and 
recognized  the  solutions  to  several  of  the  problems  which 
had  suggested  themselves  in  his  work. 

A  sudden  fear  seized  him.  He  began  to  tremble.  He  at 
once  realized  that  Paul  Milton  had  burned  the  precious 
manuscript  instead  of  his  own  thesis,  which  was  now  on  the 
desk  before  him,  complete  and  perfect.  De  Soto  knew  that 
the  boy  would  never  have  done  such  a  thing  intentionally, 
and  he  decided  not  to  agitate  him  by  informing  him  of  his 
error;  he  believed  the  boy  had  already  suffered  too  much. 


278  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

And  yet  the  geometer  looked  upon  it  as  a  miracle  rather 
than  an  error.  He  began  to  perceive,  more  and  more  con- 
clusively, that  the  youth,  who  seldom  had  anything  to  say 
heretofore,  was  not  himself  when  he  gave  voice  to  that 
sermon  on  human  love,  which  was  still  ringing  in  the 
scientist's  ears.  The  boy  was  merely  a  medium,  a  channel, 
an  avenue  which  had  conducted  an  almost  mysterious  power 
— a  power  to  which  that  youth  was  servant.  It  was  that 
power,  and  not  the  boy,  that  had  destroyed  the  scientist's 
manuscript — destroyed  it  without  the  boy's  knowledge  of  it. 

The  scientist  fell  to  thinking.  What  was  this  power? 
What  is  this  power  in  the  presence  of  which  his  own  re- 
search seemed  so  defenceless — in  the  presence  of  which  it 
had  to  bow  and  be  unknowingly  destroyed  and  reduced  to 
dust  and  ashes?  Call  this  power  what  you  will,  it  is  a 
power  which  works  for  the  salvation  of  men's  souls.  It  is 
a  power  which  places  humane  interests  above  all  others,  a 
power  before  which  all  other  interests  seem  artificial,  idol- 
atrous and  unessential.  The  geometer  began  to  wonder 
what  good  he  or  his  work  had  ever  done  for  the  world  of 
humanity — ah!  not  only  he,  but  his  colleagues  as  well,  who 
were  shut  up  in  their  laboratories  and  offices  isolated  from 
their  fellow-men  and  preferring  the  company  of  germs  and 
geometry.  His  whole  past  loomed  up  before  him.  What 
little  interest  he  had  taken  in  his  undergraduates !  How  he 
had  ignored  them  and  allowed  them  to  ruin  their  own 
careers!  He  began  to  think  not  only  of  the  evil  he  might 
have  helped  to  prevent,  but  also  of  the  good  he  might  have 
done  by  living  and  walking  among  them,  by  loving  them, 
and  by  enlightening  them  morally  as  well  as  intellectually 
as  did  the  greatest  Teacher  who  ever  trod  this  earth. 

De  Soto  became  a  nervous  wreck ;  his  nights  were  sleep- 
less. A  week  after  his  interview  with  Paul  Milton,  the 
geometer  was  placed  in  a  sanitarium  to  recover  from  the 
"strain  of  overwork" — as  the  university  publications  printed 
it.  There  was  a  conflict  raging  in  his  soul — a  conflict  be- 
tween Science  and  Religion,  and  he  believed  the  latter  was 
gradually  conquering  the  former.     He  was  slowly  but  cer- 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  279 

tainly  beginning  to  believe  in  that  power  which  had  been 
transmitted  to  him  through  Paul  Milton,  of  whatever  nature 
that  power  might  be  and  by  whatever  name  we  choose  to  call 
it.    It  is  generally  referred  to  as  God. 

A  few  weeks  later  the  college  papers  announced  the 
changes,  appointments  and  promotions  for  the  coming  year 
in  the  various  departments  of  the  university.  In  the  depart- 
ment of  mathematics  it  was  stated  that  Paul  Milton  had  vol- 
untarily resigned.  (But  nobody  cared  to  believe  it;  they 
preferred  to  think  of  him  as  having  been  ousted.)  Doctor 
Leech  had  been  promoted  to  assistant  professorship,  but 
Doctor  Leech  was  stretched  out  on  the  floor  of  his  room, 
not  rolling  in  ecstasy  over  the  fact  that  he  was  without  wife 
and  children,  or  that  he  had  won  out  over  those  who  were 
blessed  with  them ;  but  motionless  and  silent.  He  had  passed 
away  in  a  fit  of  drunkenness ;  his  brick-red  hair  was  floating 
on  a  pool  of  blood,  and  the  fingers  of  his  long  white  hand 
were  fastened  with  a  death-grip  about  the  neck  of  a  whiskey 
bottle.  Professor  Ambroise  De  Soto  had  already  left  the 
university  on  his  summer  vacation,  which  he  would  spend 
out  west  to  recover  from  that  "strain  of  overwork  which 
his  remarkable  researches  of  the  past  three  years  had 
brought  upon  his  system." 

Paul  Milton's  "thesis"  was  on  sale  at  all  the  bookstores 
in  town.  Every  one  in  the  university  had  read  it  or  was 
reading  it.  It  was  the  topic  of  conversation  everywhere ;  his 
name  was  on  the  lips  of  every  student  and  every  member  of 
the  faculty.  His  book  was  ridiculed,  condemned,  praised 
and  ignored. 

Every  writer  and  artist  should  learn  to  enjoy  and  appre- 
ciate ridicule  whether  directed  at  him  or  at  his  work.  Many 
of  us  are  prone  to  take  both  ourselves  and  our  work  too 
seriously,  and  we  should  indeed  feel  grateful  for  the  amuse- 
ment furnished  by  the  caricatures  and  the  burlesques  which 
flow  from  the  pen  of  the  public  jester.  These  contributions 
are  intended  neither  for  praise  nor  for  censure,  and  the  man 


28o  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

who  takes  them  earnestly  is  a  greater  fool  than  he  who  in- 
vents them. 

A  word  or  two  might  also  be  said  in  regard  to  serious 
praise  or  censure.  The  critic  who  praises  our  work  need 
not  sign  his  name  to  his  critique,  for  praise  neither  harms 
nor  helps  us,  and  therefore  he  who  praises  might  just  as 
well  remain  unknown.  A  condemnatory  article,  however, 
should  never  appear  without  a  signature — a  real  one,  not  a 
nom  de  plume.  If  our  critic  has  not  enough  courage  to 
censure  us  openly,  we  shall  not  even  pay  him  the  respect  of 
reading  what  he  has  to  say.  Let  him  append  his  name  that 
we  might  first  consider  the  character  of  the  man  before  we 
give  weight  to  his  opinions.  If  he  is  honorable,  we  should 
learn  and  try  to  correct  the  faults  which  he  finds  with  our 
work.  But  so  many  critics  know  so  little  about  the  subject 
they  attempt  to  criticise,  and  they  decide  that  the  easiest 
way  to  talk  about  something  they  do  not  understand  is  to 
deny  its  existence.  Hence  they  frequently  write :  "The  con- 
ditions which  the  writer  has  exaggerated  do  not  even  exist." 

Neither  high  praise  nor  low  condemnation  are  indicative 
of  serious  thought.  It  is  only  when  our  work  is  seemingly 
ignored  that  it  has  penetrated  deeply  into  the  mind  of  our 
silent  critic.  Time  is  the  only  element  which  solves  great 
problems  correctly.  To  say,  at  a  glance,  that  a  theory  is 
right  or  wrong  is  to  say  nothing  at  all.  When  the  critic 
speaks  neither  pro  nor  con,  but  hesitates  and  prefers  to  post- 
pone his  judgment,  then  we  may  justly  feel  that  we  have 
introduced  a  great  principle. 

It  is  only  the  man  who  doubts  the  merit  of  his  own  work 
who  flies  to  the  newspapers  and  periodicals  to  learn  what 
others  think  of  it;  but  when  a  man  is  satisfied  with  that 
which  has  been  produced  through  himself  as  a  medium,  he 
is  indifferent  to  criticism  of  either  form,  and  considers  it 
merely  as  a  source  of  information  for  plagiarists  whose 
minds  are  too  immature  to  form  opinions  of  their  own.  The 
embryonic  artist  likes  praise  and  hates  censure;  the  devel- 
oping artist  ignores  praise  and  loves  censure,  because  the 
latter  shows  him  the  very  defects  he  is  striving  to  remove 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  281 

or  rectify;  but  the  mature  and  born  artist  is  neither  dis- 
turbed nor  pleased  by  other  persons'  opinions  of  his  work, 
be  those  opinions  good  or  bad. 

Paul  Milton  seemed  to  feel  no  responsibility  for  the 
ideas  set  forth  in  his  "thesis."  Neither  the  praise  nor  the 
censure  seemed  to  reach  his  eye  or  ear.  He  heard  only 
those  who  remained  silent,  only  those  who  seemingly  ignored 
his  work;  and  their  inaudible  approval  was  as  sweet  to  his 
ears  as  the  songs  of  the  birds  and  the  voice  of  his  own 
violin. 

He  received  but  one  personal  communication  in  regard 
to  his  work.  One  day  the  door  bell  rang,  and  the  janitor 
found  a  sturdy  little  fellow,  four  or  five  years  old,  standing 
on  the  steps.  He  was  dressed  in  a  soldier's  uniform  of 
bright  red  decorated  with  large  brass  buttons.  He  carried 
a  tin  helmet  on  his  head,  a  toy  sword  in  his  right  hand,  and 
a  sealed  envelope  in  his  left. 

"This  is  for  Mr.  Milton,"  said  the  little  chap,  as  he  held 
out  the  letter.    "Are  you  him  ?" 

The  negro  laughed. 

"No,"  answered  he ;  "I  ain't  him,  but  I  sees  to  it  that  he 
gets  it." 

The  janitor  took  the  note  to  the  proctor's  room.  Milton 
opened  it  and  read: 

Dear  Mr.  Milton — 

I  have  read  your  book  twice.  It's  great.  The  night  you 
come  to  our  joint  you  woke  me  up  part  way.  Now  you 
have  woke  me  up  altogether.  I'm  going  out  of  the  business. 
I  closed  down  the  house.  I  think  I  have  ruined  enough 
students  already.  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  become  of 
me,  but  I  guess  God  will  take  care  of  that.  I  can  hope  and 
that's  all.  Mother  died  last  month.  Me  and  Tom  Kuhler 
Junior  are  living  alone  in  our  shanty.  Be  sure  to  notice 
Tom's  uniform  and  sword.  I  bought  the  whole  outfit  with 
the  two-dollar  bill  you  give  me  that  night.  I  bought  it  at 
the  department  store  that  thro  wed  me  out  of  my  job  when 
Tom  was  on  the  way.     I  saved  that  two-dollar  bill  until 


282  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

now.  But  when  I  read  your  book  I  bought  this  uniform 
right  away  with  the  money.  I'm  going  to  make  a  fighter 
out  of  Tom  and  send  him  to  his  Dad's  university  when  he's 
big  enough.  Not  a  football  fighter  but  one  like  you.  One 
to  help  keep  the  students  what  they  ought  to  be.  I  ain't 
particular  about  his  making  his  Dad's  frat.  I'd  rather  he'd 
stay  away  from  that  bunch  unless  they  turn  over  a  new  leaf 
and  become  the  Christian  Brotherhood  you  talk  about  in 
that  book  you  have  wrote. 

Your  friend, 

May  Stanley. 

Milton  could  scarcely  believe  what  he  had  read.  To 
think  that  he  had  written  a  thesis  which  every  one  could 
understand — a  thesis  which  had  reached  the  hands  and  the 
heart  of  even  this  poor,  abused,  illiterate  woman  of  the 
streets.  He  wanted  to  hug  the  little  messenger  who  deliv- 
ered that  letter. 

"Where  is  the  little  soldier  who  brought  this?"  asked 
Milton  of  the  janitor,  who  was  making  up  his  bed. 

"He's  went  away ;  he  didn't  wait  for  no  answer.  Sir." 

Just  then  there  was  considerable  cheering  on  the  street. 
Milton  ran  to  the  window.  The  students  of  the  university 
had  assembled  in  a  body  to  march  to  the  "New"  Stadium 
to  see  the  first  "big"  baseball  game  of  the  season.  The 
little  soldier  in  his  bright  red  uniform  and  helmet  was  lead- 
ing the  procession,  brandishing  his  toy  sword  in  tempo  with 
the  music  of  a  brass  band. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   FAREWELL 

It  was  commencement  time  again.  The  alumni  were  on 
their  way  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  returning  to  the 
university  to  celebrate  the  reunion  of  their  classes.  If  the 
reader  will  figure  it  out,  he  will  observe  that  it  was  the  year 
for  Paul  Milton's  Triennial  and  for  Tom  Kuhler's  Sexennial. 

It  was  the  first  big  reunion  of  Milton's  class  since  gradu- 
ation, but  he  did  not  care  to  participate  in  it :  for  they  were 
all  strangers  to  him — all  but  Arch  Coddington,  and  Arch 
could  hardly  be  called  a  friend.  Coddington,  the  only  man 
in  his  class  whom  Milton  really  knew,  was  the  cause  of  Paul 
Milton's  present  sorrow.  Yes;  Paul  Milton  was  sad  in 
spite  of  all  his  happiness. 

The  greater  we  love  persons  or  places  the  more  ardently 
do  we  yearn  to  improve  and  purify  them,  and  sometimes  we 
fight  so  strenuously,  so  fearlessly,  ah!  even  so  inconsider- 
ately in  their  defense  that  we  wound  them  in  the  conflict. 
There  are  many  students  who  stand  up  to  shout  and  sing 
their  love  and  praise  of  their  Alma  Mater  in  a  manner  which 
seems  to  thrill  her  and  make  her  forgetful  of  all  the  injuries, 
insults,  lies,  tricks,  disgraces  and  sins  which  they  have  left 
behind  them  as  dark  spots  on  her  soul ;  but  there  are  a  few 
less  hypocritical  ones  who  have  become  so  genuinely  at- 
tached to  her  that  they  would  rather  wound  her  by  bringing 
these  dark  spots  to  the  surface  and  then  wash  them  away 
with  their  own  silent  tears  caused  by  the  pain,  which  they 
(being  a  true  and  closer  part  of  her)  also  feel. 

Paul  Milton  was  one  of  these  few.  He  had  loved  his 
Alma  Mater  so  deeply  and  reverently  that  he  sacrificed  him- 
self and  everything  to  fight  for  her,  and  she  was  wounded 


284  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

in  the  battle.  It  would  take  some  time  for  that  wound  to 
heal,  but  when  she  recovered,  she  would  be  firmer  and 
purer  than  before.  He  stayed  at  her  bedside  to  console  her 
until  other  sons,  with  smiling  faces  and  brilliant  costumes, 
would  return  to  relieve  the  pain.  He  remained  at  the  uni- 
versity until  the  Sunday  preceding  Commencement,  know- 
ing that  the  reunion  classes  would  come  to  town  the  follow- 
ing Monday  morning. 

When  Milton  arose  early  that  Sunday,  he  went  to  the 
window  of  his  alcove  and  gazed  in  admiration  upon  the  New 
Fraternity  building  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Its 
walls,  which  had  risen  high  into  the  fresh  clean  air,  were 
being  bathed  in  the  pure  sunlight  of  that  wonderful  June 
morning.  The  white  stones  glistened  like  precious  gems 
against  the  rich  azure  of  a  cloudless  sky.  The  old  dormitory, 
and  all  the  unpleasant  memories  connected  with  it,  had 
vanished  forever.  It  was  by  the  wish  of  the  students  them- 
selves that  it  had  been  smitten  to  the  ground,  and  in  its 
stead  stood  this  beautiful  new  temple  whose  shining  roof 
was  there,  not  to  conceal  the  sins  and  diseases  of  a  secret 
clan  of  reckless  pleasure-seekers,  but  to  shelter  a  demo- 
cratic confederation  of  noble,  clean,  honorable  boys  and  men 
— a  union  of  both  undergraduates  and  faculty  who  desired 
to  learn  and  to  teach  the  wealth,  the  health,  the  strength,  the 
truth  and  the  beauty  of  the  moral  sentiment  and  intellect. 
And  God  Himself  was  embracing  it  in  his  strong,  warm 
arms — embracing  His  temple,  which  both  His  mental  and 
His  physical  laborers  had  erected  to  symbolize  and  protect 
a  Christian  Brotherhood. 

The  walls  of  the  research  laboratory  on  the  adjoining  lot 
had  not  risen  to  so  great  a  height.  Its  construction  had  been 
delayed  and  postponed  for  the  work  on  this  more  important 
and  more  necessary  addition  to  the  university  campus.  It 
pleased  Milton  to  see  that  the  New  Fraternity  building  tow- 
ered above  the  grayer  walls  of  the  laboratory — that  brother- 
hood had  triumphed  over  research.  He  saw  in  this  the 
future  fulfillment  of  his  prophecy,  and  it  made  his  leave- 
taking  happier  and  easier. 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  285 

He  had  sent  his  trunk  to  the  station  the  day  before,  and 
left  a  note  on  his  desk,  giving  the  janitor  an  address  to  which 
his  mail  might  be  forwarded.  He  had  only  his  violin  to 
carry  with  him  to  the  train — his  only  traveling  companion, 
as  it  were.  Before  he  left  the  house,  he  longed  to  say 
good-bye  to  some  human  being — some  one  in  whose  hand- 
clasp there  would  be  as  much  sincerity  and  love  as  in  his 
own.  He  had  once  received  such  a  clasp  the  first  time  he 
met  Harold  Hollis  in  Miss  Jones'  attic.  He  knew  that  clasp 
might  easily  be  repeated  now,  were  it  not  for  the  meager, 
fragile,  senseless  partition  which  had  sprung  up  between  the 
two  boys  like  a  blade  of  poison  grass. 

Hollis  was  indeed  asleep  in  the  room  next  to  him.  He 
was  staying  over  for  the  commencement  baseball  game.  The 
door  to  his  room  was  closed,  as  usual,  but  Milton  stood  in 
front  of  it  a  long  time,  before  he  left  the  temporary  quarters 
which  had  brought  them  so  near  together  despite  the  fact 
that  it  was  the  cause  of  their  separation.  He  placed  his 
hand  on  the  knob  and  was  about  to  open  the  door  and  press 
Hollis  to  his  bosom ;  but  to  obey  is  to  command — for  there 
came  to  his  mind  those  words :  "Don't  look  at  me  or  speak 
to  me  again."  So  he  merely  whispered  his  farewell — whis- 
pered it  softly,  silently,  tearfully.  Then  he  rushed  out  into 
the  street,  and  never  turned  his  head  to  look  back  on  that 
house  which  had  cloistered  the  boy  whom  he  was  leaving 
forever. 

On  his  way  to  the  depot  he  had  to  pass  the  chapel  of  the 
university.  The  president  was  preaching  the  baccalaureate 
sermon.  His  text  was  reform,  and  his  message  to  the  under- 
graduates, who  sat  before  him  in  their  caps  and  gowns,  was 
very  similar  to  Milton's  message  from  "The  Alumni,"  which 
he  had  underlined  in  Emerson.  The  candidates  for  higher 
degrees  were  also  seated  before  the  head  of  the  university, 
but  one  of  them  was  missing,  although  he  had  submitted 
two  theses — one  of  which  had  been  read  by  almost  every 
student  in  the  congregation ;  the  other  was  secretly  pre- 
served, locked  and  treasured  in  a  drawer  of  Professor  De 
Soto's  desk. 


286  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

The  campus  was  deserted.  It  seemed  every  one  was 
attending  the  services  in  God's  temple,  listening  to  the 
preacher's  effort  to  inspire  the  graduating  class  with  the 
spirit  of  reform.  As  Milton  passed  the  entrance,  the  huge 
pipe  organ  began  to  roar  majestically,  and  the  entire  congre- 
gation joined  in  singing  a  hymn.  He  stepped  into  the  lonely 
vestibule,  took  his  violin  from  its  case,  and  accompanied  the 
song  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  drinking  in  every  word,  as 
it  seemed  to  pound  so  powerfully  and  yet  so  hopelessly 
against  the  massive  doors  which  separated  him  and  his 
sweet,  simple,  appealing  music  from  that  splendor  and  dis- 
play which  rendered  his  own  efforts  inaudible  and  invisible 
to  the  large  congregation. 

Press  on,  press  on!  ye  sons  of  light, 
Untiring  in  your  holy  fight, 
Still  treading  each  temptation  down, 
And  battling  for  a  brighter  crown. 

Press  on,  press  on!  still  look  in  faith 
To  Him  who  con-q'reth  sin  and  death: 
Then  shall  ye  hear  His  word,  ''Well  done." 
True  to  the  last,  press  on,  press  on! 

After  the  close  of  the  last  verse,  he  placed  his  violin  in 
the  case,  brushed  aside  a  tear,  and  hurried  off  to  make  his 
train. 

In  the  meanwhile  Harold  Hollis  had  arisen.  He  was 
alone  in  the  house.  All  the  other  junior  members  of  his 
fraternity  had  left  town,  and,  strangely  enough,  the  influ- 
ence of  their  shallow  exclusiveness  and  clannish  snobbery 
had  departed  with  them.  Consequently,  Hollis  began  to 
think  and  act  for  himself.  He  had  read  Paul  Milton's 
"thesis"  not  as  an  individual  but  as  a  member  of  a  secret 
clan,  and  naturally  he  scorned  the  criticism  which  had  been 
directed  against  them.  But  when  he  stood  alone  and  saw 
the  sunlit  walls  of  the  New  Fraternity  house  rising  so  im- 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  287 

pressively  into  God*s  heaven,  he  realized  for  the  first  time 
that  this  building  was  nothing  more  than  the  materialization 
of  the  thoughts  and  ideas  which  Paul  Milton  had  expressed 
in  his  book,  and  in  the  adherence  to  which  Hollis,  from  that 
moment  on,  saw  his  own  salvation. 

He  unbolted  and  flung  open  the  door  in  the  partition 
between  the  two  rooms,  and  rushed  into  the  alcove  to  apol- 
ogize to  the  author  and  claim  him  and  embrace  him  as  his 
noblest  friend  and  brother.  But  it  was  too  late :  the  express 
was  carrying  him  farther  and  farther  away  from  the  univer- 
sity, never  to  return,  and  bringing  him  nearer  and  nearer  to 
a  mother's  bosom — a  bosom  on  which  Harold  Hollis  could 
never  again  rest  his  head.  The  only  trace  and  remembrance 
of  Milton  which  HoUis  could  find  was  the  note  he  had  left 
for  the  janitor. 

Hollis  read  that  note  and  learned  for  the  first  time  that 
Paul  Milton  and  Allaine  Bennett  lived  in  the  same  town,  in 
fact,  on  the  same  street  of  that  town  even  within  a  few 
squares  of  each  other.  Hollis  returned  to  his  own  room,  sat 
down  at  his  desk  before  Allaine's  picture,  and  began  to  write 
a  long  letter,  although  he  could  see  very  indistinctly;  for 
the  hot  tears,  which  filled  his  smarting  eyes,  not  only  blurred 
his  vision  but  fell  upon  the  paper  as  well. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


REUNION 


On  Monday  morning  the  Alumni  began  to  arrive  at  the 
university,  register  at  their  respective  headquarters,  and  don 
the  costumes  which  had  been  designed  to  distinguish  the 
various  classes.  The  campus  was  a  scene  of  animation  and 
brilliancy.  The  graduates,  strolling  across  the  green  in  their 
multicolor  suits,  gave  it  the  appearance  of  a  gigantic  flower 
bed  planted  unsymmetrically  with  numerous  stalks,  bearing 
blossoms  of  every  possible  description,  which  moved  about 
from  time  to  time  constantly  interchanging  their  positions 
like  the  colors  in  a  kaleidoscope. 

Here  stood  a  group  of  jolly  tars  attired  in  dazzling  blue 
and  white.  Beside  them,  under  the  spreading  elms,  sat  sev- 
eral Chinamen  in  vivid  red  and  yellow,  smoking  their  quaint 
long-stemmed  pipes,  A  chorus  of  clowns  in  pink  bloomers 
and  peaked  hats,  trimmed  with  green  tassels  and  rosettes, 
were  performing  circus  "stunts"  on  the  steps  of  the  old 
vine-clad  chapel.  A  battalion  of  soldiers,  in  tin  helmets  and 
bright  red  uniforms,  were  drilling  under  the  memorial  gate- 
way and  singing  the  glees  of  former  days.  A  gang  of  con- 
victs were  displaying  their  stripes  behind  the  black  iron 
fence  at  the  gymnasium.  An  automobile,  loaded  with  Turks 
in  purple  turbans  and  gilded  scimiters,  rolled  slowly  through 
the  crowded  streets. 

It  was  Arch  Coddington's  class  who  were  dressed  as 
clowns,  and  it  was  Tom  Kuhler's  class  who  were  dressed  as 
soldiers. 

The  graduates  re-visited  all  the  dear  old  haunts  of  their 
college  days — ^the  haunts  which  were  again  brightened  by 
the  jolly  costumes  and  the  happy  faces  of  yore.    The  senior 


\ 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  289 

fence,  the  tavern,  the  lunch  counter,  the  shore,  the  vaude- 
ville— each  in  turn  became  the  rendezvous  where  old 
acquaintances  were  once  again  renewed  and  enjoyed.  One 
haunt,  however,  was  deserted.  That  night  a  soldier  and  a 
clown  were  walking  arm  in  arm.  They  turned  in  a  dark 
side  street  and  stopped  before  a  certain  house,  which  had 
formerly  been  the  scene  of  lawless  pleasure.  But  the  house 
was  now  dark  and  silent.  The  familiar  twang  of  the  old 
piano  had  ceased.  But  in  the  little  shanty  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street  they  could  hear  the  thin  sad  voice  of  a  mother 
singing  her  boy  to  sleep.  The  fool  and  the  warrior  retraced 
their  steps  and  joined  the  carousing  merrymakers. 

The  revelries  continued  until  late  in  the  evening,  and 
were  again  renewed  the  next  morning,  when  more  alumni 
appeared  in  fresher  suits  to  brighten  up  those  which  had 
already  undergone  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  first  happy  day 
of  reunion  time. 

Everybody  seemed  to  be  exuberantly  happy.  Paul  Mil- 
ton's thesis,  it  seemed,  was  forgotten.  The  sensation  which 
it  had  produced  was  seemingly  washed  away  by  this  great 
wave  of  gayety  which  had  swept  over  the  entire  university 
filling  every  nook  and  corner  with  gladness.  But  gay  and 
happy  as  all  appeared  on  the  surface,  there  were,  neverthe- 
less, some  minds  in  which  the  ideas  of  his  book  had  firmly 
and  secretly  taken  root.  Even  all  this  excitement  and 
ecstasy  did  not  suffice  to  eradicate  the  impression  which 
those  big  truths  had  made  upon  certain  individuals.  What 
does  it  matter  if  most  of  our  seed  of  thought  falls  on  hard, 
barren,  uncultivated  soil  where  it  is  crushed  and  destroyed 
underfoot,  so  long  as  one  or  two  grains  of  it  sink  deeply 
enough  into  fertile  crevices,  hidden  from  public  view,  where 
they  can  sprout  under  protection  and  finally  bloom  to  repro- 
duce and  perpetuate  the  same  idea  which  was  stored  in  all 
the  others  ?  All  great  changes  take  place  slowly  and  imper- 
ceptibly. The  influence  of  new  conceptions  cannot  be  de- 
tected in  a  day  or  in  a  year.  Sometimes  an  entire  decade 
must  elapse  before  a  noticeable  amelioration  appears.  But 
although  the  good   is   slowly   received  and  acknowledged. 


290  THE   NEW   FRATERNITY 

nevertheless  those  seeds  which  are  hidden  underground 
begin  to  germinate  at  once.  There  are  hundreds  of  imme- 
diate good  results  of  our  service  which  we  shall  never  hear 
or  see,  and  these,  perhaps,  are  more  beneficial  to  humanity 
than  those  which  are  advertised  and  flashed  so  boastfully 
before  the  public  eye. 

Harold  Hollis,  as  we  already  know,  stayed  over  for  the 
commencement  baseball  game,  which  was  to  be  played  that 
Tuesday  afternoon.  On  the  morning  before  the  game  he 
was  walking  along  the  street  and  suddenly  ran  across  Arch 
Coddington  arrayed  in  his  pink  and  green  bloomers.  Cod- 
dington  rushed  forward  excitedly  to  meet  HolHs,  and,  in 
drawing  his  hand  from  the  pocket  in  his  costume,  he  acci- 
dently  scratched  it  on  the  "frat"  pin  which  he  had  used  to 
remedy  the  tear  his  bloomers  had  received  in  a  skirmish  the 
preceding  night.  Hollis  did  not  seize  the  hand  which  had 
been  thrust  forward,  and  Coddington  dropped  it  without 
noticing  that  the  scratch  had  drawn  blood. 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Coddington,  when  he  saw 
Hollis'  face  more  closely.    "What's  happened  to  you  ?" 

"I'm  poisoned,"  answered  Hollis. 

"How?" 

"Syphilis,"  said  Hollis,  trying  hard  to  smile. 

"Hard  luck,  old  man,  but  you'll  get  over  it." 

"The  doctor  doesn't  think  so,"  added  the  unfortunate 
victim,  trying  to  swallow  the  lump  in  his  throat.  "It  takes 
years  and  years  to  get  it  out  of  the  system,  but  I've  got  such 
a  rank  dose  of  it  that  my  physician  doubts  a  permanent 
cure." 

"I  know  a  specialist  that  can  fix  you  up  all  right,"  sug- 
gested Coddington. 

"Thanks  for  the  advice,  Arch,  but  it's  too  late.  I  wish 
you  had  referred  me  to  that  specialist  when  I  first  entered 
college.    Difficult  as  it  is  to  cure,  it  is  very  easily  prevented." 

"How?" 

"By  listening  to  the  counsel  of  a  friend — a  true  friend." 

"Wasn't  I  a  true  friend  ?"  asked  Coddington. 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  291 

"Scarcely;  you  played  your  part  in  bringing  this 
upon  me." 

"I !" 

"Yes,"  said  Hollis;  "of  course  it  is  due  mainly  to  my 
own  weakness — my  lack  of  character.  I  allowed  you  and 
others  to  influence  me,  although  my  mother  advised  me 
strongly  enough,  before  she  died,  to  keep  the  straight  path." 
His  voice  wavered  when  he  mentioned  his  mother.  "But 
even  after  I  lost  her,  I  acquired  a  new  friend  here  at  the 
university  who  was  trying  to  keep  me  away  from  this.  He 
never  spoke  of  it  directly,  but  I  could  read  it  in  his  mind. 
I  ignored  him  and  his  advice  just  because  you  wrote  to  me 
that  he  was  a  goody-goody,  just  because  he  didn't  belong  to 
our  order,  just  because  you  considered  him  our  inferior. 
God!  how  could  any  one  be  inferior  to  me  in  this  present 
condition ;  I'm  rotten  through  and  through.  I  used  to  be  a 
decent  sort  of  fellow."  Hollis  sobbed  quite  audibly,  and 
then  added  in  a  firmer  tone:  "It's  our  damned  exclusive- 
ness  and  secrecy  that's  brought  me  to  this.  We  are  going 
to  do  away  with  that  when  we  move  into  our  new  building. 
Have  you  seen  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Coddington. 

"It  is  the  cleanest  and  most  upright  building  on  the 
campus.  Few  of  the  graduates,  who  have  returned  today, 
understand  the  true  significance  of  that  structure." 

"What  significance?" 

"It  is  the  material  symbol  for  the  thought  expressed  in 
Paul  Milton's  book.    Have  you  read  it?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"Well,  you  will  some  day.  It  made  a  sensational  splash 
when  it  first  struck  the  university.  Then  it  disappeared 
under  the  surface  of  this  ocean  of  color  which  has  flooded 
the  town  and  campus,  but  it  is  going  to  come  up  again  some 
of  these  days.  It  has  sunk  down  into  the  depths  now,  and 
the  deeper  it  goes  the  longer  it  will  remain  out  of  sight.  We 
don't  hear  or  see  much  of  it,  but  it's  down  there  stirring  up 
the  muddy  water  of  the  deep,  ready  to  bring  more  corrup- 
tion up  with  it." 


292  THE  NEW   FRATERNITY 

"I  shall  have  to  read  it." 

"I  wish  you  had  read  it  before  I  knew  you.  I  might 
have  had  a  different  and  a  brighter  future." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next  year  ?"  asked  Arch. 

"I  am  coming  back  to  the  university." 

"What  for?" 

"Work.  I  am  going  to  do  all  I  can  to  keep  that  book 
alive.  I  am  going  to  do  all  I  can  to  keep  the  other  fellows 
at  their  studies  and  away  from  the  *fun'  which  has  written 
its  consequences  all  over  my  face.  I  won't  be  a  very  pleas- 
ant article  for  them  to  look  at,  but,  at  the  same  time,  my 
appearance  will  justify  my  sermons;  it  will  be  a  gentle 
reminder  to  the  boys  and  will  show  them  the  risk  they  are 
running.  I  am  going  to  try  to  save  as  many  of  them  from 
this  fate  as  I  can.  That's  the  spirit  of  The  New  Fraternity. 
It's  a  little  different  from  the  spirit  of  the  old,  which  was  to 
lure  them  into  the  *fun'  as  you  did  me." 

"But  you  and  I  are  still  friends — still  brothers,  aren't 
we?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hollis,  "brothers  in  the  newer  sense." 

"Then  let's  have  a  grip  on  it,"  said  Coddington,  thrusting 
out  his  hand. 

"I  can't  do  it,  Arch.  You've  got  an  open  scratch  there, 
and  I  don't  want  to  infect  you." 

The  two  boys  walked  away — in  opposite  directions. 

The  sailors,  the  Chinamen,  the  Turks,  the  clowns,  the 
soldiers,  the  convicts  and  all  the  returning  classes  were  as- 
sembling before  their  headquarters  to  march  to  the  campus. 
The  various  colors  had  now  collected  and  arranged  them- 
selves in  lines  on  the  grass,  like  rows  of  flowers  such  as  we 
see  in  the  public  parks.  After  a  given  signal,  each  variety 
left  the  campus  through  the  memorial  gate  and  joined  the 
procession  headed  by  a  brass  band. 

The  streets  and  sidewalks  were  black  with  people,  eagerly 
reviewing  the  parade  and  cheering  each  class  and  section  as 
it  passed  them  on  its  way  to  the  baseball  diamond.  One  of 
those  sections  received  more  applause  and  cheers  than  any 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  293 

other.  It  was  the  army  of  soldiers  in  red  uniforms  and  tin 
helmets.  They  were  by  far  the  most  spectacular  costumes 
in  the  entire  pageant.  That  army  was  headed  by  a  span  of 
four  beautiful  white  horses  hitched  to  a  brass  chariot,  which 
reflected  the  sunlight  so  brilliantly  that  the  driver  seemed  to 
be  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  fire.  The  driver  was  Tom 
Kuhler,  who  looked  more  mighty  and  handsome  than  ever. 
On  the  edge  of  the  chariot  sat  a  small  child,  dressed  like  his 
father  in  a  little  red  uniform  and  a  small  tin  helmet ;  it  was 
the  "class  boy."  The  group  was  deserving  of  all  the  aj>- 
plause  it  received.  The  people  had  not  forgotten  the  sensa- 
tional football  victory  of  six  years  ago,  and  they  lifted  their 
hats  and  shouted  their  praise  and  admiration  for  the  great- 
est living  graduate  of  the  university. 

There  was  only  one  person  among  the  spectators  who 
did  not  participate  in  the  storm  of  applause  which  welcomed 
the  returning  hero.  It  was  a  woman  standing  on  the  street 
corner.  Her  dress  was  shabby,  and  her  thin,  pale  face  was 
broken  and  sad.  Her  hollow  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Tom 
Kuhler,  but  he  would  not  have  recognized  them  even  if  they 
had  succeeded  in  attracting  his  attention.  A  small  boy  was 
clinging  to  her  skirts.  By  a  queer  coincidence  he  was  dressed 
almost  identically  like  the  little  soldier  on  the  edge  of  the 
chariot,  and  the  faces  of  both  boys  bore  a  striking  resem- 
blance to  the  face  of  the  driver;  but  no  one  in  that  vast 
cheering  multitude  seemed  to  notice  it.  And  the  chariot 
rolled  on,  and  the  woman's  eyes  followed  the  charioteer  until 
his  shining  helmet  vanished  in  the  distance.  Then  she  took 
the  child's  hand  and  crept  wearily  to  her  forsaken  shanty. 

On  Wednesday  morning  the  more  dignified  caps  and 
gowns  of  the  undergraduates  replaced  the  torn  and  soiled 
costumes  of  the  alumni,  and  a  somewhat  more  solemn  proces- 
sion crossed  the  campus  and  entered  the  chapel  of  the  uni- 
versity, where  many  happy  parents  were  assembled  to  see 
their  sons  receive  diplomas  from  the  president.  Several 
honorary  degrees  were  also  conferred — two  of  them  upon 
men  who  had  undertaken  and  accomplished  great  social  re- 


294  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

forms  in  other  cities ;  purple  velvet  hoods  were  hung  about 
the  shoulders  of  these  recipients. 

Paul  Milton's  "thesis"  had  been  scarcely  heard  of  out- 
side the  university.  The  Alumni  Weekly,  by  means  of  which 
a  notice  of  the  book  might  have  been  circulated  among  the 
graduates  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  declined  to  advertise 
it.  He  had,  however,  sent  a  copy  to  his  mother  at  once,  and 
she  showed  it  to  Allaine  the  moment  she  called  at  the  cot- 
tage. It  was  through  Allaine  that  the  book  was  written  up 
in  the  Norford  papers  and  placed  on  sale  at  the  Norford 
bookshops.  It  was  not  long  before  every  one  in  the  little 
town  was  reading  it.  Now  the  name  of  Paul  Milton  was 
heard  more  frequently  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  Norford 
than  that  of  Harold  Hollis. 

No  one  in  all  Norford  received  Paul  Milton's  book  more 
enthusiastically  than  Mr.  Wallace  Bennett.  The  fact  that 
he  had  long  ago  given  up  all  hope  for  Paul  Milton  as  a 
reformer  made  him  even  more  appreciative.  And  he  began 
to  ponder  deeply  over  what  he  might  do  to  reward  the  boy 
for  the  task  he  had  accomplished ;  he  felt  that  money  was  a 
very  inadequate  recompense — he  wanted  to  give  something 
which  was  dearer  to  both  of  them.  He  thought  over  the 
situation  so  deeply  that  his  interest  in  AUaine's  wedding 
began  to  lessen  considerably. 

Allaine  of  course  was  happy,  at  least  happier  than  she 
had  been.  She  was  glad  that  her  father's  interest  in  Paul 
Milton  had  again  been  aroused ;  but  if  it  had  only  been 
before  Harold  Hollis  had  won  the  first  place  in  his  mind  and 
heart !  But  the  fact  that  she  had  helped  the  boy  she  loved — 
helped  him  to  agitate  the  reform  which  her  father  had  de- 
sired— cheered  her  considerably.  She  was,  in  fact,  trying 
very  hard  to  imagine  that  Harold  Hollis  was  none  other 
than  Paul  Milton  himself ;  that  the  name  Hollis  on  the  wed- 
ding cards  was  merely  an  assumed  name  for  Milton;  that 
the  wedding,  after  all,  was  going  to  turn  out  exactly  as  she 
had  desired  it,  and  that  she  was  really  marrying  the  only  boy 
she  ever  loved. 


THE   NEW   FRATERNITY  295 

On  that  commencement  morning  when  the  great  pipe 
organ  was  pouring  forth  its  song  of  praise  from  a  hundred 
golden  throats,  and  when  the  president  of  the  university 
was  placing  the  purple  velvet  hoods  of  honor  over  the  heads 
of  the  great  social  reformers — on  that  same  morning  Alice 
Milton  and  her  son  Paul  were  in  the  little  garden  behind  the 
cottage  at  Norford.  The  birds  were  chanting  a  Te  Deum 
in  the  trees  above  them.  Paul  sat  on  the  grass  reading  a 
book;  Alice,  who  had  just  finished  making  a  garland  of 
purple  morning-glories,  threw  it  about  her  boy's  neck,  and 
then  clasped  him  to  her  bosom. 

"I  only  hope  you  are  as  happy  as  I,"  she  murmured. 

"I  am  very  happy,"  said  Paul. 

"Happy  even  without  a  reward?"  asked  the  mother. 

He  pointed  to  a  sentence  on  the  page  before  him.  (He 
had  been  re-reading  Emerson's  essay  on  New  England  Re- 
formers.)    The  widow  read  the  double-underlined  passage: 

The  reward  of  a  thing  well  done  is  to  have  done  it. 

"But  I  had  so  hoped  for  your  sake  there  should  have 
been  something  more,"  added  the  mother. 

At  that  moment  the  postman  passed  the  gate  and  threw 
a  package  into  the  garden.  Paul  caught  it  and  opened  it.  It 
contained  a  photograph  of  Allaine  Bennett  and  a  letter. 
The  writing  of  the  letter  was  blurred  in  many  places,  but 
was  still  legible: 

Dear  Milton: — 

The  enclosed  photograph  is  one  which  you  have  already 
seen.  I  showed  it  to  you  one  night  when  you — unconsciously 
perhaps — were  trying  to  make  a  more  upright  man  of  me. 
I  found  you  outside  my  door  when  I  was  about  to  visit  my 
landlady's  chamber.  You  prevented  that  visit  temporarily, 
and  I  believe  you  might  have  severed  all  my  future  relations 
with  her  had  it  not  been  for  the  letter  which  I  had  received 
from  Arch  Coddington,  in  which  he  described  you  as  a 
goody-goody  whom  I  should  not  allow  to  keep  me  away 
from  my  *fun.'  I  took  his  advice  instead  of  that  which  you 
were  voicing  through  your  very  silence  when  we  were  sit- 


296  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY 

ting  before  the  woodfire  (and  when  you  remarked  later  that 
the  girl  on  the  enclosed  photo  looked  like  a  girl  of  consider- 
able influence) . 

The  lie  which  our  landlady,  Miss  Jones,  invented  to  con- 
ceal my  dishonorable  relation  with  her  and  to  which  I  un- 
hesitatingly submitted  has  since  caused  me  many  a  sleepless 
night.  I  often  believe  that  my  present  punishment  is  the 
outcome  of  that  lie,  by  which  I  allowed  my  own  mother  to 
be  lowered  to  the  level  of  this  woman's  sister.  I  shall  never 
again  cease  to  follow  the  sound  advice  she  gave  me  before 
her  death,  and  which  I  have  temporarily  but  compensatingly 
violated.  Yet  I  am  not  entirely  to  blame ;  for  after  her  death 
I  had  only  my  father  to  advise  me.  My  father,  who  has 
done  everything  possible  for  me,  is,  nevertheless,  rather 
loose  morally.  His  own  behavior  after  my  mother's  death 
and  his  talks  to  me,  on  certain  subjects,  weakened  my  resist- 
ance when  Miss  Jones  began  to  display  her  affection  for  me 
after  I  moved  into  her  house.  You  know  the  result  of  all  this 
as  well  as  I  do,  and,  as  I  have  said  before,  you  might  well 
have  prevented  it  had  it  not  been  that  Coddington  and  I 
were  such  close  friends  and  members  of  the  same  frat. 

I  met  this  girl  the  preceding  summer.  She  exerted  a 
remarkable  influence  over  me  as  long  as  I  remained  in  her 
presence,  but  her  photograph  alone  was  not  enough  to  keep 
me  straight;  I  had  hoped  it  might  be.  However,  when  I 
saw  her  again  the  following  summer,  I  forgot  all  about  Miss 
Jones,  and  this  girl's  influence  again  returned — the  influence 
to  make  me  lead  an  upright  life  and  to  win  her  by  doing  so. 
But  when  I  came  back  to  college  in  the  fall  and  left  the  girl, 
I  left  her  influence  also,  and  I  resumed  my  calls  on  the  land- 
lady; and  because  I  was  no  longer  living  in  Miss  Jones' 
house,  I  used  to  visit  you  the  same  evening  to  help  me  with 
the  preparation  of  my  tests  in  Calculus.  This  of  course  was 
only  a  bluff,  on  my  part,  to  avoid  suspicion  on  yours.  I  was 
capable  enough  of  preparing  myself  for  those  tests  without 
your  assistance. 

Then  Miss  Jones  left  town.  That  was  a  noble  talk  you 
gave  her  the  night  before  her  departure.    It  was  right  that 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  297 

she  should  leave  the  community.  I  must  admit,  however, 
that  I  was  lost  without  her.  My  relations  with  the  landlady 
had,  of  course,  awakened  a  desire  in  me  which  the  purifying 
influence  of  this  girl's  company  would  have  soon  overcome. 
But  without  her,  my  power  to  resist  was  weak,  and  I  yielded 
to  the  everlasting  coaxing  of  my  fellow  friends  and  began 
to  patronize  a  house  of  ill-fame. 

No  matter  how  low  we  are  dragged  by  these  debasing 
pleasures,  it  seems  that  the  good  in  us  can  never  be  com- 
pletely smothered,  and  it  waits  patiently  to  be  awakened  by 
the  first  beam  of  sunlight  which  enters  our  souls.  There  must 
be  moments  in  the  life  of  the  lewdest  man  in  existence  when 
he  craves  for  the  love  of  a  pure  and  noble  woman.  The 
following  summer  the  good  in  me  again  triumphed  over  the 
evil.  I  spent  my  entire  vacation  with  this  girl  at  her  parents' 
home  in  the  mountains.  I  never  again  expect  to  live  happier 
days  than  those.  Her  presence  again  dispelled  every  evil 
thought  from  my  mind.  It  elevated  me  wonderfully  to  be 
near  her.  My  soul  seemed  as  high  as  the  mountains  them- 
selves. Her  presence  was  as  purifying  as  the  mountain  air. 
At  the  end  of  the  summer  I  proposed  to  her;  she  accepted 
me.  By  doing  so,  I  believed  she  had  forever  driven  every 
vice  out  of  my  life.  But  when  I  returned  to  the  college  and 
again  joined  the  company  of  my  easy-going,  conscience- 
lacking  friends,  I  became  more  untrue  to  this  girl  than 
ever,  even  though  I  was  engaged  to  her.  And  in  a  very 
short  time  I  was  hopelessly  swamped  in  degradation,  which 
has  now  poisoned  and  polluted  every  drop  of  blood  in  my 
body. 

Our  wedding  was  scheduled  for  this  present  June.  I 
was  ashamed  to  appear  before  her  during  the  Christmas  and 
Easter  vacations;  you  knew  my  condition  at  that  time.  I 
wrote  letters  to  her,  offering  excuses  for  my  absence — ex- 
cuses which  involved  the  truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth.  I 
knew  all  the  while  that  I  could  never  marry  her,  and  yet  I 
could  not  decide  to  give  her  up.  I  often  had  a  pleasant  but 
momentary  belief  that  I  might  be  suddenly  cured  as  if  by 
miracle,  but  now  the  doctors  have  given  me  up,  or  at  least 


298  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

given  me  the  impression  that  my  case  had  little  or  no  chance 
for  a  permanent  recovery. 

The  date  set  for  our  wedding  is  only  a  few  days  off,  but 
I  have  not  yet  informed  the  family  that  I  cannot  marry  and 
run  the  risk  of  infecting  her  with  disease.  If  only  I  had 
gone  there  at  Christmas  time  and  told  them  all.  At  that 
time  our  engagement  had  not  yet  been  publicly  announced. 
But  I  still  entertained  the  hope  of  being  cured  in  spite  of 
my  physician's  discouraging  opinions,  and  the  longer  I  post- 
poned canceling  the  engagement  the  more  hopeful  I  became 
and  the  more  unwilling  to  give  her  up.  It  is  not  an  easy 
thing  to  say  good-bye  forever  to  one  we  love  so  dearly.  I 
once  thought  of  having  the  wedding  postponed,  but  that 
would  have  aroused  suspicion  and  would  have  spoiled  the 
slight  chance  to  which  I  still  clung.  I  was  everlastingly  de- 
bating these  questions  in  my  mind.  No  one  will  ever  know 
how  I  suffered  both  mentally  and  physically.  But  I  have 
surrendered  at  last.  The  girl  must  know  all,  but  I  am 
ashamed  to  tell  her  myself.  I  love  her  too  much  to  breathe 
these  things  in  her  presence  or  even  send  them  to  her  on 
paper. 

I  once  told  you  not  to  look  at  me  or  speak  to  me  again. 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  obey  that  command  of  mine,  for  I 
do  not  deserve  your  recognition.  Do  not  answer  this  letter, 
but  for  my  sake  and  for  God's  sake  do  immediately  the 
favor  I  ask  in  it.  The  morning  you  left  college  I  went  into 
your  room  to  apologize  to  you,  but  I  saw  at  once  that  that 
pleasure  was  denied  me :  you  had  already  departed.  I  found 
the  note  you  had  left  for  the  janitor,  and  I  learned  for  the 
first  time  that  your  home,  too,  was  in  Norford.  That  infor- 
mation solved  the  problem  which  has  driven  me  almost  mad. 
The  girl's  name  and  address  are  written  on  the  back  of  the 
photograph  together  with  a  note  of  introduction  which  I 
have  signed.  I  am  going  to  request  you  to  call  at  her  home, 
return  the  picture,  and  explain  all  to  her.  Tell  her  openly 
of  my  condition.  Tell  her  I  have  proved  myself  unworthy 
of  her.  It  is  my  wish — my  sincere  wish — that  you  might 
some  day  win  her  in  my  stead.    Indeed,  I  know  of  no  one 


THE   NEW  FRATERNITY  299 

more  deserving  of  her  than  you,  and  nothing  would  give  me 
a  more  perfect  assurance  of  her  future  safety  and  happiness 
than  the  union  of  your  hearts.  If  you  do  not  communicate 
this  message  at  once,  I  shall  never  rest. 

I  know  you  will  not  lack  the  courage  to  do  this,  for  you 
have  already  displayed  that  courage  in  your  "thesis,"  which 
I  have  read  and  re-read  several  times.  It  had  the  same 
influence  over  me  as  this  girl ;  your  book  has  replaced  her 
presence.  If  I  had  only  had  it  sooner,  it  would  have  saved 
me.  When  I  return  to  the  university  in  the  fall,  I  shall  do 
all  I  can  to  keep  it  alive  and  to  spread  its  influence.  I  shall 
indeed  continue  the  great  reform  which  you  have  already 
begun.  I  feel  that  my  work  for  this  cause  is  the  only  work 
which  will  enable  me  to  forget  my  disappointment  and 
misery ;  and  who  knows  but  that  by  helping  to  save  the  souls 
of  others  I  might  myself  receive  God's  forgiveness  and  sal- 
vation! This,  I  believe,  is  the  old  gospel  of  Christianity — 
the  same  doctrine  of  THE  NEW  FRATERNITY. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Harold  Hollis. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  find  language  to  express  the 
effect  which  this  letter  had  upon  Paul  Milton.  Words  could 
not  describe  the  supreme  and  sublime  joy  which  thrilled  him 
when  he  learned  from  Harold  Hollis  himself  that  he  had  at 
last  won  the  true  fraternity  of  the  boy  he  had  loved  so 
deeply,  and  that  this  boy  was  going  to  continue  and  extend 
the  good  work  which  the  "thesis"  had  begun.  To  Paul  that 
letter  was  something  more  than  the  promise  of  a  human 
being;  it  was  a  promise  which  God  Himself  conveyed  to 
him,  and  Harold  Hollis  was  the  medium  through  which  that 
promise  came. 

It  would  be  equally  difficult  to  describe  the  joy  which 
Alice  Milton  experienced  when  she  saw  the  photograph  of 
AUaine  Bennett  in  her  son's  hand.  But  she  dared  not  let 
him  become  aware  of  that  joy,  because  she  must  remain  true 
to  her  promise  to  Allaine — her  promise  never  to  tell  Paul 
how  much  the  girl  loved  him.     That  was  a  secret  which 


300  THE   NEW  FRATERNITY 

Allaine  alone  had  the  exclusive  right  and  extreme  happiness 
to  reveal. 

"When  shall  I  call  at  Willow  Lodge?"  asked  Paul,  as  he 
glanced  at  the  address  on  the  back  of  the  photograph. 

"The  letter  urges  you  to  do  so  at  once,"  said  the  widow. 
"You  must  not  wait  any  longer ;  the  Norf ord  papers  are  full 
of  the  plans  for  the  wedding." 

"But,  Mother  dear,  think  of  it!  think  of  it!  He  has 
requested  me  to  tell  this  girl  that  he  wants  me  to  fill  his 
place!" 

"Yes,  exactly,"  said  Alice  absent-mindedly. 

"Mother!"  exclaimed  Paul,  "you  speak  as  though  you 
wish  me  to  do  it!" 

"The  poor  boy  says  he  will  never  rest  unless  you  do," 
added  the  widow  more  thoughtfully. 

"But  I  am  not  brave  enough  to  ask  for  the  hand  of  a 
strange  girl.  She  will  think  I  am  a  lunatic.  And  think  what 
all  Norf  ord  would  say !  Mother,  I  haven't  the  courage.  I 
can't  do  it.    I  won't  do  it." 

"Perhaps  the  girl  will  do  it  for  you,"  suggested  the 
widow,  smiling. 

"She  doesn't  know  me  either,"  said  Paul. 

The  widow  pretended  to  reflect  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  all  of  a  sudden,  "I  believe  it's  the  same 
little  girl  who  invited  you  to  her  party  when  you  went  to 
school  together.  I  still  have  that  invitation.  Wait  a  second, 
I  shall  get  it,  and  we  shall  compare  the  name  with  the  one 
on  the  back  of  the  photograph."  Alice  Milton  skipped  into 
the  cottage  like  a  little  child. 

Paul's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  picture  before  him.  He 
gazed  at  those  knowing,  welcoming  eyes  of  hers,  long  and 
steadily  and  with  a  wonderful  admiration.  And  as  he  did 
so,  he  was  conscious  of  a  change  coming  over  him — or  rather 
an  exchange:  for  it  seemed  he  was  experiencing  the  attrac- 
tion toward  Allaine  which  HoUis  had  felt,  just  as  Hollis  had 
become  imbued  with  The  New  Fraternity.  After  all,  was  it 
not  the  thought  of  Allaine  in  Hollis  that  had  roused  so  deep 
an  affection  for  the  boy  ?    Was  not  this  very  affection  merely 


THE  NEW  FRATERNITY  301 

the  'bud  of  a  bigger  creative  love  which  was  now  beginning 
to  swell  and  waiting  anxiously  to  open?  Paul  fell  back  on 
the  grass,  clasping  the  picture  to  his  heart.  As  he  did  so,  he 
spied  a  pair  of  happy  birds  in  the  branches  above  him. 

"The  reward!  The  reward!"  he  murmured,  lifting  the 
picture  to  his  Hps. 

His  mother  returned  with  the  invitation  addressed  in 
Allaine's  childish  writing  to  Master  Paul  Milton.  She  also 
brought  a  small  cardboard  box  with  her. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  same  name ;  compare  them,"  she  said,  as 
she  handed  him  the  engraved  invitation. 

"So  she  invited  me  to  come  to  see  her  a  long  time  ago," 
mused  Paul,  as  he  saw  his  name,  which  her  little  hand  had 
written  on  the  envelope. 

"Yes,  and  you  did  not  go,  but  she  brought  you  this  the 
next  day." 

"What?"  asked  Paul. 

The  widow  handed  him  the  little  box.  He  opened  it 
and  found  a  little  heart-shaped  cake  covered  with  a  faded- 
pink  icing,  on  which  the  name  Allaine  was  embossed  in  white 
sugar.    A  tiny  bite  had  been  taken  from  it. 

"Did  a  mouse  do  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes;  you  were  the  little  mouse — the  little  schoolboy 
who  tasted  this  heart  a  long  time  ago ;  but  you  were  too  busy 
then — too  busy  building  a  schoolhouse  on  the  top  of  your 
sand  pile — ^too  busy  to  take  all  of  it.  And  can  you  guess 
what  you  said  after  you  tasted  this  heart?" 

"No;  what  was  it?" 

"I  wrote  it  on  the  lid  of  the  box,"  said  the  widow. 

Paul  looked  at  the  lid,  and  read : 

"I  shall  get  the  rest  of  it  some  time  again." 

And  that  afternoon  he  took  the  picture,  the  letter,  the 
invitation  and  the  cake,  and  strolled  over  to  Willow  Lodge, 
where  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  great  wedding. 


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